


We Are The Music Makers, And We Are The Dreamers of Dreams

by clairebearer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Angelic Grace, Awkward Sexual Situations, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, BAMF Sam, Bottom Castiel, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Cupid - Freeform, Dark Magic, Demons, Destiny, Domestic Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fate, Free Will, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, It's all about the souls, M/M, Magic Mirrors, Mental Health Issues, Musical References, Reaper Dean, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Sexuality, Slow Build, Trickster Gabriel, chupacabra, re-written season 9, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 62,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairebearer/pseuds/clairebearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the aftermath of seasons 8's epic finale.<br/>With Sam's life hanging by a thread Dean is forced to call the only being he knows has the power to help: Death. However, like most impossible things they come with a terrible price and it acts as an hour glass hanging ominously over Dean's head as his life-line burns away like a fuse, a full-time job as a reaper waiting for him. Time is short and the world is bent on destroying itself, so when the shadow of an averted apocalypse threatens to resurface and wipe out everything he has fought so hard to save Dean must do everything within his power - and more - to stop it.<br/>It's a fact that Winchesters rarely get a break, and Dean knows full well that he is no exception. So the question is: will he ever get to tell Cas how he really feels before his time is up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro.

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapter Details:**  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Warnings:** None  
>  **Word Count:** 359  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters (unless own characters). This is purely a fan-created work of fiction and any likeness to real people or events is purely coincidental.

### Intro.

_Every song has a story._

Songs for lonely hearts and broken dreams. For triumph and sacrifice. There are songs for tragic endings, for new beginnings, and songs for standing up for what you believe in even when the odds are stacked against you.

And, of course, there are songs about **_love_**.

Love is a complete mystery and yet stares us in the face every day, unfolding like green fields beneath blue skies, enduring the most turbulent of storms that stand to keep them apart. It welcomes us with a warm smile, a name on hushed breath, and gazes longingly when we close our eyes and turn away. Sometimes it shines so brilliant it is blinding, and others it is barely a lick of flame in the gloom, but if you listen carefully you can hear it rise and fall like the tide.

It may start with a small voice, shy away, waver with nerves on ivory keys, or it may bellow into the night air like rock n’ roll blasting from the speakers of an old ’67 Impala with nothing but the dust on its wheels and the long stretch of road ahead.

Because every song has a story.

And this is Dean and Castiel’s.

It’s unrefined, wild, cuts deep enough to leave a permanent scar, and its choruses repeat the same old mistakes. But despite all of this, it truly is profound in every sense of the word. It is _their song_. It is _their story_ , and it has the power to move kings and shake the very foundations of Heaven and Hell.

Dean knows that it’s never been perfect; that they’ve been improvising ever since they threw out the book fate handed them. But Dean’s always been one to play it by ear, and as long as he’s in the driver’s seat _he’s_ the one calling the shots. _Their_ song stays, and that’s final.

So when he’s dragging the giant frame of his little brother from a decrepit church, heart sinking as he watches the sky fall in streams of fire, Dean wonders at what point that song suddenly shifted key and everything went so very wrong.


	2. Hanging by a Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's life is on the line, and Dean makes a risky deal with Death to save him.  
> Of course, there's always a debt to be collected.
> 
> Chapter Details:  
> Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Kevin Tran  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Mild language  
> Word Count: 3,751  
> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters (unless own characters). This is purely a fan-created work of fiction and any likeness to real people or events is purely coincidental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm really getting into the core of the story in my writing now and it's exciting! Seriously, I can't wait to post some of the plot twists and developments in future chapters! :). This one will likely be the shortest, mainly because I felt that it finished rather well as it is and it would make more sense to post the rest in chapter 3.  
> Hope you enjoy, and thanks again!  
> x
> 
> Song of choice: "Save Rock n' Roll" by Fall Out Boy
>
>>   
> I will defend the faith  
> Going down swinging  
> I will save the songs  
> That we can't stop singing  
> 

### Hanging by a Thread 

It’s the longest 24 hours of Dean’s life in the hospital.

He sits beside Sam’s bed, hardly says a word above the steady beeping of machines keeping his brother alive. Dean thought that aborting the mission to close the gates of Hell would somehow negate all of the strain on his little brother’s body, but it hasn’t. The sickness just hangs heavy.

The doctors say they can’t do much else but monitor him, keep him stable. They say he may never wake up.

Dean tells them to take their medical degree and shove it up their ass.

The second morning rises, its warm glow seeping through the blinds bringing with it promises of hope – hope that Sam will open his eyes and just be _Sammy_ again. But they’re empty promises. Sam doesn’t wake.

So that’s when Dean starts to pray. He prays to Cas – _begs_ him to help, but like all of his prayers of late they fall on deaf ears, and Dean feels something in his chest tighten at the sheer loneliness he feels in that moment. Maybe this is it? Maybe they can’t bounce back from this.

Dean raises his head from his hands and stares dumbly at the sheen of tears smeared across his palms. The room is so still. He misses the sound of rustling feathers, the subtle change in the air, and the faint current of electricity that would make the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. All of those things used to mean hope once, but now...

Now all he has is the cold _beep beep beep_ that reminds him of his failures.

_No. Not like this._

“Don’t worry, Sammy. I’m not failing you,” Dean says, voice breaking as he stands. “Not this time.”

He turns on his heel and walks in heavy determined strides out of the room. There’s work to be done.

 

* * *

 

Dean throws the duffle bag on the damp floor of the hospital’s boiler room and proceeds to empty its contents to set up a summoning spell.  When he’s done he stands to strike a match unceremoniously and drops it into a pot that immediately bursts into flame with a dramatic spark of light and heat. No sooner does the flame diminish does Dean feel the familiar chill in the air and the heavy stillness so very reminiscent of Sam’s hospital room.

“Dean Winchester…”

Dean turns to face the voice’s owner, a cold shiver running down his spine. He swallows thickly.

“I do hope your calling me here of all places is of import. I have a job to do in case you’ve forgotten,” Death drawls, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket without gracing Dean with so much as a glance.

“That’s the reason I called, actually,” Dean says.

Death looks up then, glares at Dean with eyes that hold no warmth despite the flicker of fire reflected there.

“If this is about your brother then you are not only wasting _my_ time but your own,” Death says simply, resting both hands on the cane before him. “It’s high time the two of you learned to let go – _You_ most of all.”

“I’m not asking you for a life lesson or pearls of wisdom,” Dean says firmly, standing his ground and hoping that Death can’t smell his fear. “What I’m asking is for you to cure Sam of whatever those trials have done to him.”

“And what makes you so sure I can do that?” Death replies flatly.

“I’m not, but if you can put up a flimsy piece of drywall in someone’s head then there’s gotta be _something_ you can do.” It sounds desperate, crazy, but Dean’s out of options and out of energy. His voice breaks when he says, “Just this once. After _everything_ we’ve done for this godforsaken planet…”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t squirm your way out of this one, Dean,” Death says, voice grave and sympathetic at the same time. “Sam made a commitment when the two of you decided to close the gates of Hell. His life was forfeit the second he completed the first step. And I’m certainly not prepared to do you anymore favours.”

It’s exactly what he didn’t want to hear, but Dean doesn’t have the strength left to feel angry anymore. He can’t feel it, because it’s being crushed beneath the overwhelming flood of grief and guilt that has him close to falling apart.

 “ _Please_ ,” Dean whimpers, closing his eyes tightly to hold back the sting of tears, “I’m _begging you_ here.”

Death sighs dramatically, and his voice is clear and concise when he speaks.

“Trust me when I say you made the right decision to abandon the trials, _but_ …” He shifts his weight and rests his cane under an arm. “There are _rules_ , and not all rules can be broken, Dean, as you already know. There is a _natural order_ to things. Sam’s time on this plane has simply reached its end. You should let him bow out gracefully.”

Dean takes in a shaky breath and opens his eyes, not caring about the tears that escape them.

“And you know _exactly_ how I feel about the rules and where you can stick ‘em.”

Death narrows his eyes and takes a step closer as a warning. “Remember who you’re speaking to, _boy_.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, but he no longer cares about Death’s threats or the fact that he’s effectively dancing in fire by leaving his manners at home.

“None of this should have been on Sam,” Dean says, voice shaking and fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms, “It should have been _me._ So if you won’t break the rules, then I’m asking you to _bend_ _them_. I’ll do whatever you want. _Please._ ”

The silence that follows is palpable. Death fixes Dean with a look that is much more contemplative than his usual cold indifference, as if he’s actually considering the meaning behind Dean’s words very carefully. Dean himself doesn’t even know if any of what he’s just said will make much of a difference, but he’s prepared to do anything if it means Sam gets to walk away from this.

“I cannot spare Sam’s life, but I can…pull some strings,” Death says, being as cryptic as ever, “Under certain conditions, of course.”

This sounds promising, at least. “I’m listening.”

Death raises his chin in all manner of authority and quiet contemplation before he speaks again.

“You must understand,” he begins darkly, “that what I am about to propose carries no absolute certainty that Sam will live an extended life. I am not privy to know such things until needed. This is a gamble as much as it is a _trade_.”

“Can you just pretend that I’m five and lay out the facts and terms?” Dean says impatiently, and he inwardly cringes as Death takes a step closer.

Death’s voice is icy and he curls his upper lip distastefully at Dean’s nerve. “I need not pretend as your insolence and the unhealthy co-dependency the two of you share is evidence enough of your maturity. I only hope that you may learn a valuable lesson from this before the end. You have caused me far more trouble than you are worth.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably on his feet and it suddenly feels like the Antarctic. When he breathes he actually sees it fog.

“But,” Death continues, “I will make this simple for you to understand. As I have told you, I cannot and will not extend Sam’s life. What I _can_ do is swap his life-line for another’s – _yours_.”

Dean has a feeling where this is going and it’s not like he hasn’t made a similar trade before, even though that deal was pretty shady and resulted in him starting the apocalypse without him knowing. _Fucking demons_. Hopefully this one won’t have any of the crappy fine print.

“Okay, deal,” Dean says, but Death isn’t finished yet.

“That’s not all. I can negate the side effects of the trails by swapping your life-lines, however the damage done to Sam’s life-line has drastically shortened it. If I do this, your time will be severely diminished.”

Dean swallows and breathes in long and heavy like he’d been holding his breath all this time. “How…how long?” he asks weakly.

“How long is a piece of string?” Death drawls before taking his cane in hand again. “I cannot tell you how much time you have exactly to the day. I can only suggest that you use that time _wisely_ , because it will be a _very precious thing_ when you consider the terms of my proposal.”

“You want my soul, right?” Dean assumes, because that’s usually the case.

“Not exactly.”

Dean frowns with confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Death taps the cane on the concrete floor absently as he ponders over his words before he says, “It will cost you your soul, but you must accept that it will neither go to Heaven nor Hell, and you will _never_ be at rest. You will owe me your services as a reaper _indefinitely_. And when the time comes, you will reap Sam’s soul as you will countless others. Do you understand this arrangement?”

It feels like a punch to the gut, and Dean doesn’t say anything for a time, just lets his mind swim in all of that. It’s a hell of a lot to take in, and he decides to file it away for another day because all that really matters right now is getting Sam out of that bed and back to the waking world as quickly as possible.

“I understand,” Dean says resolutely. “And I accept.”

As much as Dean believes he sounds confident and sure of his decision, Death doesn’t seem to agree. His cold eyes scrutinise Dean, reading him thoroughly but not the least bit convinced at his words.

“Do you, though?” Death eventually says, and Dean clenches his jaw.

“Look, I know the deal, okay? I know how the reaping thing works, and I’m prepared to do it if it means Sam gets to walk away from this. I’ve been to Heaven, Hell and freaking Purgatory and the only place I’ve _ever_ fit in was the pit. I’m rotten, and I know it. Doesn’t matter how many demons I gank or lives I save, my hands will never be clean. So way I see it, I’m getting off lightly.”

Dean’s eyes are pained and he’s frankly had enough of trying to prove himself all the damn time. It’s simple really; what’s another worthless soul to Death’s workforce anyway? He’s been tip-toeing through the veil ever since the fire took his mother, and if it wasn’t him taking lives it was him being forced to stand by and watch others take those he cared about. Death’s always been breathing down his neck, placing the dagger in his hand or twisting it into his heart, and Dean thinks his fate seems fitting when he looks at it that way.

“We got a deal or not?” he says. After a moment of heavy silence, Death extends his hand.

“As you wish,” Death says thickly.

Dean looks at the skeletal digits before him questioningly.

“So we’re doing this with a handshake? The whole “Death’s touch” thing ain't gonna bite me in the ass is it?” Dean jokes meekly. Needless to say Death’s face barely twitches at that, and Dean cautiously takes his hand.

There’s a freaky light show to their handshake that looks like Dean’s veins are glowing red, crawling up spidery trails on his wrist and arm until he can actually _feel_ something burn its mark deep in his chest, somewhere no dagger or bullet can penetrate. Death releases his grip and Dean takes a second to hunch over and clutch his chest because it feels like he’s swallowed a lump of hot coal.

“It’s been a pleasure as always,” Death drawls. “Until our next meeting then.”

Dean straightens, sweating and looking like he’s already died.

“Hopefully not too soon,” he croaks.

“Remember what I said, Dean. About using your time _wisely_.”

And then Death is gone.

So that was that. Dean had once again sold his immortal soul with nothing more than a few words and a handshake this time. It’s a tragedy; how easily a person can let go of the only thing they truly own in this life.

The things people do for love.

 

* * *

 

“So, how long was I out for?”

Dean looks over at Sam in the passenger seat of the Impala. The guy looks like he’s the new poster boy for the perfect image of health.

“Couple of days,” Dean says, “Docs said you had some sort of fever. Just needed to sweat it out is all… which you did.”

It’s a lie, but it’s the only thing Dean can think of. Sam does that funny scrunch thing with his brows when he’s trying to figure something out.

“Don’t you find that a bit, I don’t know… strange?” Sam says, giving Dean a look like he’s not giving him all the answers. “Like it’s too good to be true? I mean, last I know I’m in that church and I could _feel_ whatever it was running me down by the hour, and then I’m waking up in hospital like it’s a mild case of the flu?”

Sam cards a hand through his hair irritably. “I don’t know, man. Something’s not right. I _know_ it’s not right. Like… like something’s been replaced, y’know? Removed?”

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel, eyes back on the road. “That’s a good thing though, so we shouldn’t worry about it. Think of it as a fresh start – all shiny and new.”

“You think maybe I’ve been purified, as in the demon blood?”

“Maybe.”

Sam bites his lip and looks out of the passenger window, watching in quiet contemplation as the sun makes its decent on the horizon.

“It just… doesn’t sit right with me,” he says quietly. Dean gives him a sideways glance but doesn’t say anything.

He’s sick to death of keeping secrets from Sam and quite literally _sick to death_ too because of it. But Sam’s back, he’s well, and he’s _Sammy_ again.

Nothing else matters.

Accept for the only other thing that’s still missing.

“Those were the angels, right – that were falling?” Sam asks quietly, looking at Dean again.

“Yeah. Yeah they were,” Dean murmurs.

“You think maybe Cas…” Sam doesn’t say the words, but Dean knows what he means.

“I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

They’re parked a little ways from the bunker when Dean opens the trunk of the Impala and Sam’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. There’s a valid reason for that.

“Dean? – ”

“Yeah – I forgot he was in there,” Dean smirks playfully, “My bad.”

Crowley is tied up in the boot, still bound by the demon-cuffs and mouth taped shut, but he’s finding other ways to express his displeasure.

“You _forgot?_ ” Sam repeats slowly, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Dude, you were _in the hospital_. King of Fire Mountain here wasn’t exactly on my mind.”

Sam rips off the tape on Crowley’s mouth and Dean gives him a look. “Sam… _why!?_ ”

“Because this is bloody inhumane that’s why!” Crowley shouts and Sam immediately regrets removing the tape. “Three days I’ve been stuck in this rusting tin can on wheels. _Three bloody days,_ with nothing but your stinking socks to keep me company.”

“Not long enough if you ask me,” Dean quips and leans down to grab Crowley by the collar of his coat, getting right up close and personal. “And if you insult my Baby ever again, it’ll be the last thing you do. I promise you that.” He throws Crowley down and raises a hand to the door.

“Maybe we should give him another three days?”

Crowley looks like a kicked puppy.

“Dean,” Sam says like he’s the voice of reason here, “We should take him inside. The guy is a lot more human now than you think.”

“ _’A lot more human’_ don't make him one, Sam. As far as I’m concerned he’s still our psycho neighbourhood douche bag.”

“But he’s still less demon than before. We can’t just let him go or leave him in the car,” Sam adds.

Dean shrugs. “We could just gank him.”

“Uh, I’m right here you know. I can hear you,” Crowley butts in.

“Shush, the grownups are talking,” Dean says, but it has little effect on Crowley who just looks at him blankly.

Sam pulls Dean to the side to speak more privately. “He could be useful to us though. Give us inside information about Abaddon and Hell? The two of them don’t really get along. I know because she dropped by during the trial and I made her a Molotov cocktail. Don’t think she liked it though.”

Dean looks back at Crowley over his shoulder and considers Sam’s words.

“Okay, but this is on you Sammy. I’m not cleaning up after his mess. He’s your responsibility.”

“Fine.”

“Okay then.” Dean nods and heads back over. “Looks like you’re getting an upgrade. No skin off my nose. If it means getting your sorry ass out of my car then it’s a freaking blessing,” he says to Crowley who squints at him suspiciously before the tape is slapped over his mouth once again and he’s being manhandled out of the trunk.

 

* * *

 

It’s funny how one minute you’re stabbing demons in the neck and the next you’re giving them their own private dungeon behind the filing cabinets. That’s where Sam and Dean leave Crowley to stew for a while before they start the _real_ interrogation to get as much dirt on Abaddon as possible.

Kevin strolls up to them just as they enter the “war room”.

“Would it have killed you both to at least call me?” he gripes, “It was lit up like Christmas in here. And now I’m getting my facts from CNN and meteor showers? Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” He looks like crap, a shade of the Kevin that nearly gave himself an aneurysm in Garth’s boathouse.

“Those weren’t meteor showers,” Dean says gravely. “That was the halo academy taking a swan dive off their cloud.”

“You mean the angels _fell_?” Kevin says, baffled. “ _All_ of them?”

“No fucking idea, but looks likely.”

“Crap.”

“Yeah.”

“What about Castiel?”

Dean doesn’t answer Kevin’s question and heads straight for the mini fridge for a beer, or five.

“You said this – all of this – was active?” Sam asks Kevin from the table, looking at the map beneath its glass.

“Yeah, a couple of nights ago,” Kevin says as Dean hands him a beer.  “It’s like something triggered an alarm system. Really freaked me out.”

“That’s the same night the angels fell,” Sam points out and ignoring the beer dangling in front of him as he tries to make sense of everything.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean huffs, giving up and taking the bottle for himself. “You saying the Men of Letters had some sort of trigger warning in place, like for a nuclear threat?”

“Looks that way,” Sam replies vaguely.

Dean takes a swig of his beer. “Makes sense. Least now we know why this place is a bunker. Still doesn’t say much about why the angels are on ground zero though.”

It’s true that no one knows what’s happening out there in the real world with the angels and Heaven. It feels like the apocalypse decided to rear its ugly head again after they’d sacrificed so much to bury it in a cage, and Dean wonders if maybe they’d been driving down that road all along without a clue, like destiny wasn’t chasing them– _they_ were chasing _it_.

He finishes his beer and starts on Sam’s.

“So… what now?” Kevin sighs.

Sam drags a hand down his face and shrugs. He shifts his gaze to Dean, and the two of them share a look in the oppressive silence, both trying to find the answer but coming up short.

“We keep doing our jobs,” Dean eventually says, because that’s all they _can_ do.

 

* * *

 

It’s a cool summer’s evening, and Dean is sat alone on the hood of the Impala trying to make sense of it all.

He thinks of Castiel. How it’s been three days, coming close to four, and there’s been no word from him. No phone calls, no tuning into the radio frequency, not even Morse code. Nothing.

He begins to wonder if Castiel fell and lost his mojo or worse burned up in the atmosphere. He could be dead for all Dean knows, and Dean has thought that many times before. After Castiel did his disappearing magic trick just days after he’d said he wouldn’t return to Heaven, it kept Dean up at night. Castiel had practically confessed to suicidal thoughts, and it wasn’t just the leaving that did a number on Dean. It was the absolute silence that followed.

He can take the pushing and pulling, the arguments and the dorky attempts to fit in, but he can’t stand the silence.

Dean’s found that, for a man who had no faith in himself let alone in God or his soldiers five years ago, he prays a lot these days. He prays all the damn time, especially when he’s at a loss and needs his friend, like he needs him now. But this time he doesn’t need him to save Sam or shop half way across the globe for exotic items or to lift an anvil. He needs him because he’s family. He needs him for _him._

“Where the hell are you, buddy?” he breathes into the night air.

It’s just one of many familiar whispers into the night like those he had secretly uttered in Purgatory. He’d confessed many things back then, and in many ways he came out a new man, a man free from the burden of past sins and expectations; a clean slate with a few permanent scratches and chips, ready to be muddied again. He wonders if Castiel ever really listened to those confessions, and if they had changed his opinion of him. Maybe they managed to push Castiel away.

He wonders as he stares into the night and prays. But the stars aren’t out tonight, and no one’s home.

Dean thinks they probably won’t be for a long time.


	3. Lean On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel wakes in the hospital with a patchy memory and is taken in by the kindness of a stranger to aid in his recovery. Or the one where some woman hits him with her car and avoids being sued. It's a learning process for the fallen Castiel as he comes to terms with his humanity, and sometimes all it takes is the helping hand of a friend to show you the way through the darkness.
> 
> Chapter Details:  
> Pairing: Castiel/OFC  
> Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sexual content, depictions of violence, alcoholism.  
> Word Count: ~10,730  
> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters (unless original characters). This is purely a fan-created work of fiction and any likeness to real people or events is purely coincidental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there readers! Here's the new chapter. Please forgive any typos or mistakes in continuity - I've tried to get this up before I go on holiday, so there's going to be a 2 week hiatus unfortunately (but I'll still be writing, so no worries there ;) ). It's 2:33am here and I'm totally drained, so I'll check and make any alterations when I get back. And again, thanks for reading! 
> 
> x
> 
> **Fun fact: there’s actually a retirement home in Glenwood Springs called “Grace Healthcare”. /the more you know.
> 
> Chapter song: "Lean On Me" - Bill Withers
>
>>   
> If there is a load  
> You have to bear that you can't carry  
> I'm right up the road, I'll share your load  
> If you just call me
>> 
>> Lean on me when you're not strong  
> And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on  
> For it won't be long  
> 'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on  
> 

 

  


### Lean On Me

**_Glenwood Springs, Colorado_ **

When Castiel opens his eyes he sees white, and for a brief moment he wonders if he’s gone blind.

He blinks tightly and turns his head wearily, the white slowly dissolving into the sterile blue and grey of a hospital room. There’s the steady beeping of machinery and the distant cacophony of nurses and doctors from the other side of the door, but it’s foggy. His head hurts, and his mouth feels dry.

A dumpy nurse opens the door.

“Oh my word,” she says with surprise. “You’re awake.”

She wanders over to his side and checks his eyes with a small penlight, asking him a couple of routine questions to test that he’s fully conscious before giving the monitors by his bedside a good looking over.

“You were on n’ off like a light. Gave us quite the scare at first,” she says as she checks his IV.

“How long…” Castiel struggles to say because his throat feels like he’s swallowed a bucket of gravel.

“– Were you unconscious?” the nurse says, assuming. “About three days. Well, you were drifting in n’ out and babbling a load a’ nonsense, but you seem fine now. Vitals appear to be normal.”

Castiel tries to move to get out of bed, but he notices that his right leg is wrapped and propped up, impeding his escape.

“And where do’ya think you’re going in such a hurry?” the nurse says flatly, “You’ve got a lotta healing to do, and I don’t think you’ll be waltzing out that bed anytime soon with the state you’re in, do you?”

Castiel looks almost panicked, remembering the last time he was stuck in a hospital bed with doctors and nurses constantly poking and prodding. Only this time it looks as though he won’t be making any grand escapes in the near future.

“She’s still here y’know,” the nurse says as she coaxes Castiel back into the bed and makes him as comfortable as possible considering his predicament. Castiel looks at her confused.

“The young lady that brought you in?” the nurse adds, expecting him to know what that means exactly. Of course, he doesn't. The nurse sighs.

“She’s in the lobby. I’ll go n’ tell her you’re up.”

The nurse leaves and Castiel doesn't have much time to make sense of the situation because a young woman with long light brown hair wearing a navy sweater and jeans walks in. Her reaction isn't too dissimilar to the nurse’s.

“Hi,” she says with a wry smile. Castiel doesn't say anything, just watches her as she approaches the seat by the bed, pointing at it as she asks, “Mind if I sit?”

Castiel nods gingerly and the woman takes her seat. There’s a long, heavy silence before she clears her throat, causing Castiel to flinch a little.

“You feeling okay?”

“Not particularly, no,” Castiel replies after a moment.

Pause.

“It would appear that I have been incapacitated,” he adds grimly.

The woman coughs and rubs the back of her neck in a nervous twitch. Castiel stares at her, and notices that she has striking green eyes. There’s an odd feeling of familiarity in them that Castiel can’t quite discern.

“Yeah, I kinda hit you with my car,” the young woman says through an anxious smile, “You just sorta wandered out of the woods like some stoned tax accountant. Sorry about the foot by the way.” She nods towards the cast gingerly like she can feel how it must hurt. It doesn't though, not much. It shouldn't hurt at all come to think of it. So why –

 “The name’s Faye. Faye Williams,” she says, interrupting Castiel’s thoughts. Faye pulls a stray lock of hair behind her ears and smiles as she extends her hand.

Castiel looks at the hand hovering expectedly between them for a moment before extending his own in a small handshake.

“Cas –” he starts, unsure whether or not to trust her with his name. She doesn't feel threatening, and he’s never liked or felt comfortable with lying about his identity.

“Cas?” Faye repeats slowly, and Castiel feels his vessel’s heart quiver for some reason. “Not heard a name like that before.”

Castiel clears his throat and tries again. “Castiel. My name is Castiel.”

Faye’s eyebrows shoot up in curiosity. “For real? _That’s_ your name?”

Castiel narrows his eyes somewhat and glares at her. “Yes.”

“Wow, okay then,” Faye shrugs. “Sounds... foreign. You got a last name to go with that?”

“Just Castiel.”

There’s a long pause, and the everyday ambience of the hospital starts to sound much louder. Faye raises an eyebrow and scratches her nose absently.

“Okay then _Just Castiel_. You from around here?”

“No.”

Faye waits for Castiel to elaborate, but he doesn’t. There’s another awkward pause, and someone drops a glass down the hall.

“Okay… You got family someplace?” she asks, trying to keep a conversation going. Castiel thinks for a moment.

“It’s… complicated,” he eventually says, and Faye smiles sympathetically.

“Let me guess – divorce, right?”

Castiel doesn’t answer and lets Faye assume what she will, though he wonders what gave her that impression.

“You don’t need to say, it’s just you look the type – I mean, like someone going through a mid life crisis and decided to go on a bender.”

Castiel remains silent and just squints at her inquisitively. The woman certainly doesn’t seem afraid to speak her mind, and _even that_ is harrowingly reminiscent. He fidgets in his seated position in the bed and looks anywhere but her.

“D-Do _you_ have a family?” he asks shyly. Casual conversation isn’t something he’s well versed in after all, but he’s trying. Faye seems nice, and the least he can do for her after she found him wandering aimlessly in the middle of nowhere is attempt conversation. Well, she hit him with her car first, but that’s not really the point…

“No, well… I _did…_ ” Faye leans back in the chair and looks distant. “It’s complicated.”

Castiel simply nods and doesn’t ask why.

“Thank you,” he says after a time. Faye snaps out of her reminiscing to look at Castiel, surprised.

“For what?”

“For finding me,” he says. And he means it. He can’t recall anything after flying to Heaven, only the flood of determination he had felt and the sad look on Dean’s face when he left him at the church without so much as a farewell. Castiel finds he regrets that, deeply.

“Oh- _kay_ … but I _did_ run you over remember? Did a fine job at it too. I stuck around because I was afraid you were going to sue me or something, and I don’t really want “dead guy in a ditch” sitting on my conscience either…” She flicks a rebellious strand of hair out of her face as she leans forward.

“You’re not _actually_ going to sue me, are you?” she asks timorously.

Castiel looks at her nonplussed and shakes his head slowly. He’s fidgeting again, but he doesn’t notice as he’s too caught up in trying to read the green-eyed mystery sat at his bedside.

“Thank God,” Faye breathes, relaxing in her seat. “I’m already bled dry as it is.”

“You don’t look –” Castiel begins, and Faye raises her eyebrows questioningly. He clears his throat and looks at his lap. “That was figurative, wasn’t it?”

When he chances a sideways glance her way Faye is smirking, and his face suddenly feels very warm.

“You’re not like most folks are you,” Faye says, still pinning Castiel with those green eyes that make his vessel feel like it’s short circuiting, and that’s just a little disconcerting when he thinks about it.

“No,” he says meekly.

“I meant that as a compliment.”

Castiel knows he’s fidgeting now because he can feel the hospital gown riding up his ass, and also by the look of amusement on Faye’s face. The ambient beeping of the heart-rate monitor that’s been steadily picking up speed shifts tempo, and Castiel suddenly feels like he could do with a glass of water right about now.

“So…” Faye starts, the smirk still very much there. “Will you be needing a ride home when you’re up n’ hobbling?”

 _Home._ That’s a word that hasn’t held much meaning for a long time now. He’s not even sure where that is anymore.  
Something in his consciousness tugs defiantly, trying to offer an answer perhaps, but it’s too fleeting to construe and Castiel neglects it.

“I don’t really have a home,” he says, “Not anymore.”

Faye’s smirk withers and her eyes look sad. She bites her lower lip, pondering, and it’s quiet for a time before she eventually says, “You can crash at mine if you want? I mean, so you at least got someplace to stay until you’re back on your feet again. Literally _and_ figuratively.”

Castiel looks at her bewildered.

“It’s the least I can do for nearly mowing you down after all,” she adds with a small smile.

Whether it’s down to his low self-worth or pride, Castiel can’t comprehend why someone who has committed so many unforgiveable sins would deserve to be on the receiving end of such kindness. He’s a "wavelength of celestial fuckuppery", as Dean would probably say, and for a warrior of God to have fallen so far from the tree, well… Let’s just say he’s not in the best of places right now. Dragging Faye into all of that would be selfish.

But it’s either that, or wander aimlessly through the woods again.

“I would appreciate that very much,” he says humbly, “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a difficult three and a half weeks for Castiel and Faye. During that time Castiel learns three peculiar things: that Faye is just as guarded over her past as he is; that he is eternally grateful for the invention of painkillers; and that his grace is essentially all but dried up.

The first week was the hardest. He noticed that his foot wasn’t healing as quickly as it should and he was in pain much of the time. Flying was a no go – as was tuning into angel radio. He would sit in the dark in complete silence for hours trying to listen for something, _anything,_ but not even the sound of static would grace his ears with its presence. At first he would feel angry, irritable, and would snap easily at Faye’s mothering him even though he knew she was only trying to help.

Then gradually the depression crept up on him. It would flood his system like a poison. There were bad days when he would search the kitchen, an accursed crutch tucked under arm so he could reach for the bottle of bourbon Faye kept on the top shelf to drink himself into oblivion. Those nights were the worst. Castiel would wake the following day ashamed for burdening Faye with his behaviour, and so another bottle would empty and the cycle would repeat like a broken record.  
Those days he often found himself picking up the phone to call Dean. But each time he did he would only dial as far as the fourth digit before hanging up to reach for the bottle instead. Dean was often on his mind.

Castiel would grow to hate how heavy that would make his vessel’s heart feel.  

On the third week things started to get a little easier, and Castiel discovered that there were perks to being less-angel and more human. For starters, he discovered a fondness for cherry pie. He liked it more than most other things Faye had offered him. She had commented on several occasions how his eating pastries like they were going out of fashion with his foot still on the mend was starting to show on his waistline. Not that he really cared. Food tasted different now. It tasted _better._

Having a broken foot and no unequivocal purpose to his existence meant that he had more time to refine a palate for food, and before long he was helping Faye in the kitchen. An interest in television also eased some of the emotional lacerations, and he became fascinated by the worlds and characters on screen. Clearly, his affinity for humanity also includes their ability to create ways of escaping the burdens of reality – something he finally has the time and reason to relate.

They settle into a comfortable routine. Castiel spends the days reading novels and other literary works from acclaimed philosophers, or watching daytime TV and news headlines while Faye is working. There had been worldwide uneasiness over the meteor shower, and over the weeks a number of explosions had started to accumulate across the country. The media had labelled them random acts of terrorism from unknown extremist groups, but Castiel knows it’s something else, something far more dangerous. What that is however remains to be seen.  
On evenings he prepares dinner so that Faye can rest after a long day at work at the retirement home. Despite her constant nagging for him to rest his foot Castiel always makes a point of cooking, if only to relieve some of the guilt he feels for intruding in her home and to feel useful again. Afterwards they sit in front of the TV set and watch a film from Faye’s expanding library since Castiel found his new hobby.

One evening they finish a meal of jerk chicken and settle down to watch Forrest Gump, one of Castiel’s favourites.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Faye says during the scene where Forrest sits at Jenny’s bedside, describing the night sky in Vietnam and the sunset at sea.

“Hmm?” Castiel murmurs absently, eyes glued to the screen.

“ _Them,_ ” she says, sighing, “No matter what pulls them apart, how they go their separate ways… They always find each other. Like soul mates.”

Castiel’s eyes drift to Faye sat at the other end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her and hugging a cushion. She doesn’t look his way.

“And after all that time crossing paths, they’re barely together in the end.” Faye scoops up a handful of salted popcorn from the bowl between them without taking her eyes off the TV. “It’s tragic when you look at it,” she adds bleakly.

Castiel pulls his eyes away to look at the screen just as Forrest is stood at Jenny’s grave. “Yes,” he breathes through the growing lump in his throat, and his vessel’s chest suddenly feels very tight. “Yes, it is.”

 

* * *

 

After he fell, Castiel had found that sleep had become a necessity to his daily routine of painkillers, TV, and lounging hopelessly in the house. With sleep comes dreams, and on some nights (more often than not) they mutate into nightmares.

One night he dreams of Dean.

It starts as most of his dreams do. He is standing in a wide open space, alone and completely naked. He tries to unfold his wings, to encase himself in the warm glow of his grace, but he can’t. His wings are gone, and all that remains of his grace is a deep void that he cannot fill. He calls out for help. He calls for _Dean_. But Dean never comes.

He would usually wake at this point, but on this occasion the dream shifts unexpectedly. Dean is standing before him, smiling. His sparkling green eyes are as warm as Castiel remembers, and he looks _happy._ He actually looks happy.

Dean extends his hand to Castiel, waits for him to take it so that he can take them far away, away from the lonely expanse of emptiness they are standing in. He says something, something brief but meaningful by the way Dean’s eyes shimmer. But Castiel cannot hear any sound, and he cannot read his lips.

Castiel takes Dean’s hand, and as he does he feels that void within him fill. He feels his wings unfold, the hum of his grace embrace him, shielding him from the cold, and he feels like his old self once more. But as his strength returns, Dean fades. He fades away, dissolves into the empty landscape until there is nothing left, and Castiel finds that his grace no longer brings him any form of comfort.

He wakes screaming.

Faye is there, hovering above him with a worried look on her face that eventually melts into something closer to relief.

“It’s okay. You were just having a nightmare, Cas.”

Castiel wipes his face and stares at the ceiling, still caught halfway between two worlds. After a moment his breathing steadies somewhat, the gentle touch on his shoulder helping.

“Was he a friend of yours?” Faye asks him warily, “In the army?”

“What?” Castiel blinks confused and still shaken.

“You called a name in your sleep before I woke you,” she adds, sitting on the side of the bed. “Dean.”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

“I mean,” she says, biting her lip, “You haven’t really said much about your past, not that I mean to pry or anything.  I thought maybe you were a soldier, what with all the night terrors and how you sometimes stare at the wall like you’re looking through it. Those are some pretty clear cut signs of PTSD.”

Castiel swallows thickly and cards a hand through his hair that’s thick with sweat as he sits up.

“It’s alright,” he says, voice like gravel, “Your reasoning is quite sound.” It may not be the whole truth, but there _is_ _some_ truth there. He _was_ a soldier once; when times were simpler, and when he still had purpose. He drags his hands over his face wearily and takes deep, calming breathes to settle his nerves.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Faye says.

“Thank you,” Castiel says softly, because he really doesn’t.

“I know how it feels, though,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes idly and avoiding Castiel’s gaze. “To lose someone – I mean, nothing as traumatic as what you’ve been through no doubt – but I know what it’s like, when the nightmares come.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, not that he doesn’t want to, just that he can’t find anything meaningful to say that will be of any comfort. It doesn’t bother Faye though because she seems to find his presence comfort enough.

“When I said it was complicated – about my family, I mean…” she says in a frail voice, taking a deep breath before continuing, “Well, I was serious. I was actually engaged a couple of years ago.”

She rests her hands on her lap and clutches at the fabric of her shorts.

“Dan. His name was Dan. I met him on a summer’s day in a Wal-Mart,” she says, smiling faintly at a memory before snorting, “I know what you’re thinking – not exactly the definition of romantic, right?” She sighs.

“We hit it off right from the start. Things were going so well. Sure we’d have our disagreements, and there were days I felt like punching a few extra windows into the walls because of how much he’d get under my skin… But we were crazy about each other. Then one day he just – he just _changed._ I mean _really changed._ He wasn’t Dan anymore. He was cold – there was no emotion or recognition there.”

Castiel feels discomfort sit in the pit of his vessel’s stomach. He’s become all too familiar with tragic circumstance since he chose freedom over peace. It clings to him like a ball and chain now, securing his fall and keeping him grounded.

“Then he just… _vanished_ ,” Faye breathes, “Literally vanished, as in right in front of me. I thought I’d had some sort of break down. Gone mad or something. And for a long time I felt it too.”

Faye’s nails dig into her thighs from the tension that’s rolling through her in an unforgiving current, and Castiel watches her in quiet consideration.

“Of course, he never came back. Now that I think about it… I don’t think I really wanted him to. Not when he wasn’t _him_ anymore.”

Castiel’s eyes are glazed over with a gut-wrenching mixture of familiarity, guilt and pity. He knows she isn’t crazy. He knows, because those are all the signs of an angel taking control of a vessel. An angel that destroyed someone’s happiness for something no doubt as trivial as hunting him down during the war in Heaven so that Raphael could sit on his high horse and call all the shots. Castiel had done _just that_ with Jimmy’s family, and he never gave the act much thought back then – how terrible it must have been for the Novaks.

He does now.

Castiel places a hand on Faye’s in an attempt to comfort her, and she abandons the grip on her lap to place her other hand over his, squeezing. His vessel’s heart skips a beat, steadily increasing its rhythm as their eyes meet. Faye’s are glassy and they shimmer in the low light of the room, but there are no tears, just sadness there, loneliness. They don’t say anything, because there isn’t much that _can_ be said nor much that can be done to reverse the damage caused. Faye’s life is changed forever, and Castiel can’t fix that. He can’t fix anyone anymore.

 

* * *

 

Faye returns home from work with two large brown bags of groceries in arm, kicking the door closed behind her before making her way to the kitchen.

“Hey, guess who’s been browsing the pastry aisle,” she calls cheerily and places the bags on the breakfast bar. “Castiel?”

There’s no response, and Castiel isn’t in the kitchen where she would usually find him about this time making dinner. There’s no sign of a meal being prepared either which is odd. She wanders into the hall.

“Cas?”

There’s a faint light and the sound of repetitive music coming from the living room. It’s dark mostly, and the TV is stuck on the DVD menu screen for E.T.

Castiel is asleep on the couch, his injured leg occupying much of the space while his other leg dangles feebly over the side. The room is well lived in like he hasn’t left all day. There are empty mugs and plates, an empty bottle of red wine Faye was saving for their meal that evening, cushions scattered haphazardly on the floor. Castiel has nailed the hobo look too with the thick stubble, sweats and tee combo and his hair a greasy mess. He’s also quite the snorer.

“Hey, _Arthur_.” Faye picks up a cushion and throws it at Castiel’s face. He barely stirs, but at least the snoring stops. Faye rolls her eyes and resorts to poking him until he finally peels his eyes open.

“Honestly it’s like living with a bear in hibernation,” she grumbles to herself.

Castiel grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut at what little light there is bleeding from the TV like it’s enough to blind him.

“Thought we were eating this evening,” Faye says, more annoyed at the state of the room and the drinking than the absence of their meal.

Castiel sits up on the couch and holds his head like it’s about to split at the seams.

“I didn’t feel like it,” he says tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He reaches over towards the coffee table and sweeps a hand over the mess, appearing to be looking for something but coming up short.

“Right. That got anything to do with that bottle of red you downed?” Faye asks, unpitying.

Castiel scoffs. He twists on the couch with some difficulty and starts searching for whatever may have fallen between the upholstery. Faye sighs.

“You know I got you that pie you like.”

Castiel stops his search and looks up at her, hopeful, “The cherry one?”

Faye nods and walks towards the mess on the coffee table. “I’m starting to think maybe it was a bad idea giving the liquor a place in the home again,” she says, picking up the empty bottle of wine and frowning. “It was a good year too, this one.”

Castiel pulls his hand from under his seat having found what he was looking for. He opens the cap from a small bottle and empties the remaining pills into his hand, immediately downing them.

“And you’re popping painkillers too?” Faye remarks.

“It’s my foot,” Castiel says in a strained voice as he leans forward to scratch irritably under the bothersome cast. “It’s been causing me discomfort all day.”

“Somehow I think the killer hangover you’re sporting isn’t going to make it any better.”

Castiel smiles sardonically. “Well, the medication wasn’t potent enough so I prescribed my own. As for these? –” He shakes the empty bottle in his hand. “That’s for the hangover.” Then he throws it over his shoulder, uncaring.

Faye sniffs and looks around the room, noting that the phone is also off the hook and half buried beneath the mess on the floor.

 “Come on, Cas,” she sighs, shaking her head as she bends to help him out of his dip in the couch before it swallows him permanently, “Time to get up.” Castiel lets himself be hauled from the couch so that he’s finally on his feet, swaying a little from a combination of his impediment and the remaining booze in his system.

 “And seriously – take a shower,” Faye teases, “You reek.”

“But the pie –”

“Shower first. Pie after.”

 

* * *

 

As much as he likes hot showers it’s not a particularly pleasant feat when you’ve got a plastic bag wrapped around your right foot. Castiel has lost count of how many times he’s come close to slipping in the tub and breaking something else like he’s made of glass. But with a hangover? He may as well drown himself in the tub and be done with it.

Fortunately he manages to exit the tub unscathed. He reaches for a towel and dries his hair and face quickly before wrapping it around his waist. The bathroom feels like the Amazon rainforest, the air thick with the kind of steam that clings to the inside of your lungs. He opens the door to let the room breathe a little and wipes a hand down the condensation on the mirror, tracing the dark stubble along his jaw with his fingers. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and the beard is making an appearance again.

He’s done this a few times before, and it’s been nothing but monotonous. The ritual is actually absurd when he thinks about it – that people spend so much time grooming, removing hair on various plots and extensions of the body when it’s a part of their design. Regardless of that fact, Castiel can see the reasoning there some of the time. It does get itchy.

He fills the sink with warm water and follows the usual steps of washing the face; applying the shaving foam, wetting the razor, applying the blade, shave, rinse, repeat.

He’s just about finishing on the tricky part just beneath the chin when he nicks the skin there. He curses unwittingly and throws the razor into the sink as the cut starts to form a healthy pearl of blood. He brushes a finger across it and studies the vibrant red smudge as he rubs it between his finger and thumb, recalling all the times he would open a vein like it was one of those little packets of ketchup in diners and think nothing of it.

And then it finally hits him.

This is _his_ blood.

Not a vessel’s, not Jimmy’s.

_His._

Castiel knows that Jimmy is gone, has been gone for a long time, and the vessel he was left with became his to bleed, scar and tear apart for his own objectives. Now, without his grace he is but a man, and this body has become his prison.

It’s all he can do to bite out a bitter laugh at how a simple smear of red on his fingertips has ultimately defined his own mortality.

Castiel doesn’t let his mind linger for too long on the topic, and he cleans up before heading into his room to dress.

 

* * *

 

He puts on a clean pair of navy sweats and his damp hair stands up in a dark mess as he pulls a grey tee over his head.

“Nice doo,” Faye teases from the doorway, a bundle of clothes in hand. Castiel starts momentarily before pulling the shirt down the remainder of his chest. Faye clears her throat.

“Got you some more threads too when I was at the store. Thought you might like to wear something that doesn’t make you look like a jogging enthusiast or a bum.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, smiling shyly. Faye places the items on the dresser and stands to face him.

“You cut yourself shaving?” she asks, her brow knitted with concern as she traces the fresh mark with her fingers. Castiel swallows thickly but doesn’t say a word, just watches her eyes as they study his neck. He finds her eyes are her most alluring feature - how green they are, how the fans of her lashes frame them perfectly and there is a certain familiarity there too. Because when Castiel looks at them, he somehow sees _Dean_.

Faye smoothes her hand just bellow Castiel’s jaw line and ghosts her thumb over the point of his chin. Her eyes meet his.

Castiel doesn’t know when his hand took her wrist, but there it is. They both stand there in complete silence for a long moment, and Castiel’s eardrums are thrumming with the roar of his blood as he becomes distinctly aware of the rising excitement below his waist. Faye steps closer, so close he can smell the scent of her hair and skin, how she smells faintly of cinnamon and the cool air after a thunderstorm. He feels a hand take his other wrist still dangling helplessly by his side, a thumb stroking tiny circles there, and his breath hitches.

Faye’s eyes wander to his mouth, and the next thing Castiel knows is the soft, wet brush of her lips against his. The feeling is like that short moment of freefall whenever he would touch down after flying, the weightlessness of it, of no longer being stuck under gravity’s thumb. He forgets the pain in his foot then and the deep cavity in his being, and surrenders to his body’s need.

The kiss intensifies and he reciprocates, meeting her demands as he opens up to slide his tongue against hers, carding a hand through her hair as Faye presses her hips flush against his. The act permits just the right amount of contact needed to coax a low needy groan from his throat.

It’s difficult to keep up with everything that’s happening because his mind is a fog of endorphins, completely lost in the sensation of touch and the want for more of it. He can’t recall moving towards the bed, but he feels the frame against the back of his knees and then he’s sinking into the mattress with Faye pressed on top of him. She rolls her hips sensuously against his as they continue their assault on each other’s mouths, and the pressure triggers a rush of heat that sweeps through his chest and collects below his stomach.

Castiel breaks the kiss to breathe, a moan escaping his parted lips at the flood of sensation. It’s like nothing he has ever experienced before, this simple act of intimate contact, and it’s just a tad overwhelming. He smoothes two trembling hands down the curve of her waist and hips, fingers ghosting at the exposed skin beneath the snagged hem of her blouse, but he’s in too much of a state to make them do much else. Faye senses him tense up, and she props herself up on her elbows.

“You okay?”

Castiel swallows thickly. “I, um, I – I’m –” he stammers, chest heaving and groin pulsing, “I’ve… not had occasion for, um…”

“Been a while, huh?”

“You could say that, yes.”

Faye smiles at him, understanding.

“It’s okay. We can take it slow.” She brushes the wet strands of hair from his brow and kisses him gently before scooting down his chest to pull up the fabric of his tee and kiss his stomach. Castiel arches his back, his body’s reflex to the sensitive skin there, and Faye travels further south, hooking her fingers under the lining of his sweats to slide them down his hips.

“Wha –what are you– oh – _oh!_ ” is all that he manages to say before he’s swimming in a current of warm bliss, writhing on top of the sheets as Faye takes him into her mouth. He throws his head back and groans, gripping the bed sheet either side of him desperately until his fingers are digging into the mattress. He can feel the warm wet of her mouth and the slide of her tongue against his shaft as she takes him in deep, and for lack of a better word the feeling is fucking _awesome._

Faye rubs his thighs and smoothes her hands up to grip his hips and Castiel bucks instinctively, panting and moaning nonsensically as the waves of pleasure continue to hit him. Then he feels something coil in his stomach, building and building until - until...

“Oh – _oh_ – _oh f_ – _fuck!_ ”

Castiel gasps as he comes, whole body arching off the bed and growing taut with the sweeping release of euphoria.  His heart is hammering; his breathing is an uncontrolled effort to drink in enough oxygen, and all he desperately wants is to cling to this feeling forever because here there is no pain, no emptiness, no weakness. It’s just sweet rapture. It’s freedom.

Castiel thinks there are definitely perks to becoming human.

“Guessing _that_ relieved some tension, am I right?” Faye smirks, rubbing her mouth before scooting up to kiss him. Castiel can taste the saltiness of his own seed on her lips.

“Y - yes, I think that rather did the job,” he says breathlessly, and isn’t that just the understatement of the day? There’s that heady feeling of weightlessness again, a little like how it feels when he’s inebriated after a binge, and he closes his eyes contently, savouring every second of it. He may not have his mojo anymore, but right now he doesn’t really care. He’s never felt more alive.

He unclasps his hands from the sheets to hold her hips, massaging there suggestively as he looks deep into her emerald eyes. She hums contently at the feeling. He wants to return the favour and give her the same release instead of constantly taking from her. Of course he knows how the act works – how there are many ways to pleasure a person – however putting that knowledge into practice isn’t something he’s had the privilege of doing. But damn is he willing to try.

He dips his hands under the band of her pants, and Faye gets the message.

“What about the pie?” she smirks.

Castiel grins. “The pie can wait.”

 

* * *

 

A couple of days later Castiel is in the kitchen preparing breakfast when he sees the news on the TV. It’s another explosion that the media has put down to an act of terrorism, only this time it’s within the Glenwood Springs area.

The local newsfeed is playing grainy footage caught on a witness’ mobile phone. Castiel watches as two seemingly normal men confront another man inside a mall before the image bleaches into bright white and static, the sound of glass exploding and the witness screaming as the shaky footage cuts to black. The image quality is too poor to make out the men’s faces, but judging by their smart attire Castiel suspects the worst. This is most likely the work of angels, and they’re in his town now. They’re _looking for him_.

He freezes just as he’s in the middle of cracking an egg into the pan.

Faye wanders into the kitchen in her work wear and says good morning as she pours herself a cup of coffee. Castiel doesn’t appear to notice that she’s there.

“Hey, you awake or decided to fall asleep stood up this time?” Faye says cheerily, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind and kissing him on the neck. He snaps out of his musing but doesn’t say anything and places the egg back in the carton.

Faye reaches over and steals a slice of toast already plated up.

“I’m in work late as Jen asked me to cover her shift, and it’s old Mrs Grayson’s birthday today. Going to be a long one, so skip the eggs for me. Don’t wait up, okay?” she says, kissing his cheek and pulling away to down half of her coffee before reaching for her car keys on the breakfast bar. “I’ll see if I can swipe you a slice of cake.”

She picks up her things and heads for the front door, calling over her shoulder, “And there’s some money on the counter for the window cleaner – make sure he actually cleans them this time!” Then the door clicks shut, and Castiel feels like he’s just woken from a long dream. Reality is a cold and lonely place it seems.

He can’t stay here. Not when he’s putting Faye’s life in danger. His very presence hangs like a curse in the air.

He can’t stay.

Castiel puts on his most comfortable pair of jeans that are faded and well worn, a plain black shirt and a red hoody. He packs a few items in a small backpack before reaching for his crutches and the money Faye had left on the counter, heading out the door. He doesn’t leave a note.

Guilt is an old friend these days, and it’s all he has to keep him company hobbling down less busy streets to keep a low profile. Once again he’s run out on someone, and Faye will be left with yet another vanishing act from which to recover. More often than not he wonders if being left with a mere broken foot after his accident is his penance now – that and being completely graceless and hapless too. Whatever it may be, the guilt alone is doing a fine job.

 

* * *

 

It’s about a quarter past ten that morning when the Impala pulls up outside Glenwood Springs Police station. Sam steps out and straightens his tie as he closes the door, bending his giant frame to talk through the open passenger window.

“I’ll see what I can get from the feds – see if they have anything on those three suits in the video footage,” he says to Dean, patting his suit jacket as if he’s lost something.

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says throwing him the FBI badge casually. Sam catches it and checks that it’s the right one before tucking it away in his suit pocket. He looks at his brother again.

“You okay?” he asks, the puppy -look in its early stages.

Dean stares at him straight-faced. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just you’ve been a bit… I don’t know… detached lately?”

Dean straightens up in his seat and looks at him quizzically.

“Sam, there are angels going nuclear out there. Now I don’t know about you, but I’d say that’s some pretty fucked up shit and a good excuse for not walking around smiling like the goddamn Joker all day long…” He pauses, mentally rehashing his words. “Unless you _are_ the Joker. Which I’m not.”  

Sam huffs and pats the roof of the car in frustration. “Right. Well anyway, just… try not to scare the guy, okay? As far as he knows he recently witnessed a terrorist attack. Just don’t go mentioning bombs and heavenly fallout or anything.”

“ _Dude_ – what the hell do you think I’ve been doing these past thirty years? I know how to do my job.”

“Sure,” Sam jeers with a tight smile. “I’ll meet you back at the motel.”

He steps back from the car and strides up the steps to the police station.

Dean slams his head on the steering wheel.

“‘ _Detached_ ’,” Dean grumbles to himself, “You have no fucking idea.”

He flips the ignition and pulls out onto the road in a fowler mood than he had been earlier that morning.

The place looks like any other town in the sticks, and aside from the freaky potentially-angelic explosion outside JC Penny’s there’s nothing out of the ordinary. It should make him sick to his stomach thinking about all the normal apple-pie towns being terrorised by a bunch of ass-monkeys with absent father syndrome, but honestly? Dean just feels tired. They’ve been watching newsfeeds and following a trail of bread crumbs for nearly a month now and are no nearer to figuring out what the hell happened upstairs. Kevin’s been doing his best to translate the angel tablet to give them something to work with, but it’s a slow process. So far they’ve got nothing.

And speaking of nothing…

Dean hasn’t heard squat from Castiel either.

He thought he’d gotten used to the angel disappearing by now, but he hasn’t. Somehow it only ever gets harder. And since the night the angels fell, well. It’s only been more painful too.

He wants to believe that Castiel is alive, that he’s still okay and not dead in a ditch somewhere. But the longer he’s left to swim alone in silence the farther that belief drifts away, and it’s hard fighting against the tide when you’re tired of swimming all the damn time. Dean’s subtly reminded of that scene in _Cast Away_ when Tom Hanks lost his favourite volley ball at sea.

The traffic lights turn red and Dean sighs. He really doesn’t want to do any of this anymore. Maybe it’s an afterlife-crisis or something? When he looks at it that way he could drop dead any day now, and yet he’s still up angel-fucking-creek without a paddle and without his best friend. He probably won’t even be able to tell him goodbye. But then again, goodbyes have never really been their thing anyway.

The lights turn green and Dean continues driving up the street when his eyes wander to the sidewalk on the other side of the road, and his heart stops.

There’s a guy with crutches wearing a red hoody sat at the bus stop, and he looks like Castiel’s fucking twin.

_Sonofabitch._

Without thinking Dean slams on the breaks, nearly causing a pile-up, and pokes his head through the window to check his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. They can’t be. _That’s definitely Cas_.

He ignores the incessant bleating of car horns behind him and swings the car around to park haphazardly in front of the bus stop. Castiel looks up at him and he looks just as surprised as Dean feels.

“Cas?”

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened, man?”

They’re sat in a local diner not far from the bus stop. Castiel is slouching in his seat from across the table, his crutches on his lap and eyes down.

“Life happened, Dean. Isn’t that the expression?”

Dean rubs a hand across his face irritably. He fixes Castiel with a long hard glare.

“Well, you look like crap,” Dean says flatly. Castiel doesn’t say anything.

The atmosphere is heavy and you could cut the tension with a knife, and Dean is grateful when the waitress brings them their coffee. He thought that their reunion would be much more, well, _reunion-like_ – not that he ever expected hugs and tears of joy. He wouldn’t pass on the hug, though.

But there’s this oppressive silence lingering between them, and frankly Dean has had enough silence for one lifetime. So he speaks his mind.

“Why didn’t you call?”

He watches Castiel for a reaction, and he gets one this time. Castiel shifts in his seat and looks up at him briefly before his eyes dart away to look out of the window, but he doesn’t answer.

“It’s been nearly a month, Cas. And you couldn’t spare a minute to call me? Not even _once_?”

Castiel swallows thickly and still doesn’t speak.

“Do you have any idea how…” Dean trails off, voice strained, “…how much of a mind-fuck that was for me? I thought you were dead, man. And you were just _okay with that_? What the hell!?”

Castiel looks at him then, and there is anger burning fiercely in those blue eyes.

“I was never _okay with it_ ,” he bites. Dean leans forward and looks wistfully at him.

“Then why the silent treatment?”

Castiel looks out of the window again, a sullen look on his face. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Castiel opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, shaking his head. Dean knows when there is something seriously eating away at him because he can never look him in the eye, and Castiel and eye contact have always gone together like tequila and lime in Dean’s book.

“Well, then at least fill me in on how you managed to wind up in a cast?”

There’s a short pause, then Castiel finally speaks.

“I was involved in an accident. A woman hit me with her car.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “What, like a dog?”

Castiel glares at Dean and throws in one of his trademark squints for good measure.

“Apparently I was wandering the outskirts of the Lookout Mountain Park when she found me,” he continues, ignoring Dean’s contribution. “I still can't remember how I came to be there.”

“You remember _anything_ about that night?” Dean asks, hopeful.

“I remember leaving for Heaven. Everything else…” he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily. “Everything else is just fragments of a memory that I can't piece together.”

The news is disconcerting, and Dean rubs his face in frustration before taking a swig of his coffee. It tastes bitter, as always.

“So how you been holding out? You must have been squatting someplace all this time. Someplace with _no phone_ , maybe?”

Castiel clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “The woman who found me… she was kind enough to take me in.”

From what Dean can gather it looks as though something had managed to distract him for those four weeks, enough to stop him from picking up the goddamn phone at least.

“Is that all she was kind enough to do for you?” Dean smirks, but it’s a hollow one. Castiel actually blushes.

“So… you managed to fall for the Florence Nightingale effect, huh?” Dean says, brushing a hand over his mouth absently and sipping his coffee. “That’s cute.”

“She was,” Castiel says, faraway.

And for some reason Dean can’t help but feel a little irked by that. He should feel happy for the guy; after all the crap he’s been through and the crap he’s still neck-deep in, Castiel deserves a break.

So why does it bother him so much?

Dean buries those feelings for another day and wonders why Castiel is still in a cast in the first place.

“What happened to the angel-juice?” he asks, carefully.

“That stuff?” Castiel smiles sardonically, eyes on the untouched coffee in his hand. “I’m afraid that has all been drunk up. What you see here is the empty carton.”

It’s a painful sight before him, and Dean can recall the same smile on the Castiel he had met after Zachariah had whammied his ass into that fake future. To see his friend so vulnerable and breakable shakes him to his very core. But it’s also profoundly unsettling if the other angels are still packing enough mojo to battle it out Street Fighter style while Castiel is running on empty.

“Well, you’re not gonna be walking right any time soon and, uh, me and Sammy could use your help right about now – with the angel crap I mean,” Dean says, trying not to sound like a needy bitch.

Castiel lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Dean. I can’t.”

“Why?” Dean says, blinking.

“Because…” Castiel fidgets in his seat and he looks away again. Dean can’t remember ever seeing him this closed off and distressed before.

“‘Cause of the trails?” he guesses. Castiel doesn’t answer.

“C’mon man,” Dean says, pushing his coffee aside, “You think I care about what you may or may not have done to knock the flying monkey brigade from the tree?”

“No,” Castiel says in a weak voice, “But _I_ care, Dean. And that’s why I can’t go with you.”

“I’m still not seeing a solid reason here. I mean look at you –” Dean waves a hand in his general direction, “Your leg’s busted, you look like you’ve been spending some quality time with Jack Daniels, and dammit you ain’t healing like you usually do either. Just… let me toss you a life line here, Cas. I just wanna help. What’s it gonna take for you to see that?”

“That’s the reason why I can’t, Dean,” Castiel says, turning to pin Dean with a hard look. “I… I’ve already been taking advantage of someone else’s hospitality, and I can see how burdensome my being there was to her –”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh for the love of– you’re _not gonna be a burden_ , Cas–”

“– It’s also _dangerous_. There are many of my brothers and sisters stranded that more than likely want my head, and I can’t put anyone else at risk. Not after everything I’ve done. And that _includes you_.”

Pause.

“You stupid stubborn son of a bitch,” Dean says lowly, “You’re not bringing the _‘I’m doing this to protect you’_ bull crap into this one.”

“Dean –”

“–No, I’m not buying it, Cas. You need to get that lilly-white ass off that high horse of yours and let the people that care about you help, ‘cause that’s what family is for. We look out for each other. Or have you forgotten that?”

Castiel looks down at the black contents of his mug, defeated.

“C’mon _,_ buddy,” Dean urges gently, reaching out a hand to place on Castiel’s. “Stop thinking you’re using me and Sammy as a crutch, ‘cause you ain’t. All I’m saying.”

It’s barely noticeable, but Dean strokes his thumb over the weathered skin of Castiel’s knuckles, silently pleading for him not to leave him again. To come back to where he belongs, were he is needed – to _come home_ _to him_.

It’s left unsaid, but Castiel hears. He just can’t bring himself to do it.

There’s a strange low rumble that Dean notices in the subtle ripples skimming the coffee in Castiel’s hand, growing until the cutlery and condiments start dancing on the table.

“What the hell? –”

Castiel removes his hand and grabs his crutches. The other patrons start to panic, assuming that it’s the beginnings of an earthquake. Then a high-pitched sound creeps into their hearing and both Dean and Castiel cover their ears from the sudden head-splitting pain that accompanies it.

The mug of coffee shatters, the glass of the diner explodes, and the patrons flee in terror as two angels stroll through the entrance.

“Crap,” Dean grimaces, scrambling from his seat and hunching over to keep as level with the tabletop as possible, pulling Castiel down and behind him so that he’s almost fully under the table. Dean watches the unhurried footsteps of their foe as they wander through the maze of tables, the panic of seconds earlier a distant ringing in his ears against the crunch of glass beneath heels. They can’t make a run for it with Castiel’s foot, and there’s no way they’ll be able to keep out of sight for much longer. So Dean guesses the only option left is the more direct approach.

 _Great_.

He’s always wanted to be John McClane.

Dean turns to Castiel and takes one of his crutches in hand. “Stay here, stay out of sight,” he whispers, looking over his shoulder cautiously before turning to say, “I’ll handle this.”

“Dean –”

“Just do what I said dammit,” he hisses, breathing unevenly as the adrenaline does its thing. “I lost you before, I ain’t about to lose you again.”

Castiel looks as though he wants to turn this into another argument about safeguarding, but Dean’s already skulking towards the adjacent table.

He shuffles behind a row of tables, following the steady steps of the two angels that are inspecting each seat and table like they’re members of the FSIS. They’re both wearing the clean-shaven pencil-pusher getup, one sporting a red tie while the other blue, and are _very_ determined to find what they’re looking for if the angel blades are anything to go by. Dean thinks he’s probably bit off more than he can chew.

He’s just about close enough to sneak up on one of the suits and knock him into next Tuesday with the crutch when his phone rings, and the silence is immediately thwarted by the sliding guitar of Scorpions.

_‘Here I am!’_

_‘Rock you like a hurricane!’_

Dean rolls his eyes skyward and curses under his breath as he freezes mid swing. The two angels turn, tightening their grip on their blades and sneering at the sight of their assailant.

“This yours?” Dean quips before smiling wryly and swinging the crutch anyway.

It’s a messy brawl and though Dean manages to get a few hits it isn’t sufficient enough to knock the angel out. He does however notice that they appear to be bruising like a peach as opposed to their usual resilience. Maybe they’ve been weakened too?

“What’s up? The kryptonite here zapping your mojo?” he says through a smirk as he upper-cuts Blue-Tie with enough force it sends him shuffling backwards, disorientating him for a moment. Red-Tie lunges for Dean with the blade and he blocks with the crutch. There’s the scraping of metal against metal before Dean is overpowered and is sent flying through the air and onto a table, half finished meals raining down on him. It breaks beneath his weight and he lands with a crack on his back, groaning at the sudden pain from the impact.

“Ugh. That’s gonna leave a bruise,” he says through gritted teeth, wincing.

Red-Tie approaches, leans down and pulls Dean up by the throat. He presses the tip of the blade to the vulnerable skin beneath his chin.

“Where is he?”

Dean shrugs in feigned ignorance. “Where’s who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Winchester,” Red-Tie warns, pushing the blade hard enough to nip the skin, “Where’s Castiel?”

“Beats me. Don’t you guys usually just _sense_ where he is or something?” Dean says, trying to buy some time to come up with an escape plan.

“It’s not that simple,” Red-Tie says, frowning. “Whatever you and that brother of yours have done to convince Castiel to use the tablet has damned us all, and we have been compromised. You three imbeciles have brought about the ruin of both our worlds. I hope you’re happy now.”

“Not now, but I _will be_ when I stick that blade through your eye socket,” Dean jeers.

“You have quite the reputation, Dean Winchester,” Red-Tie smirks, “Alistair’s prized bitch? I wouldn’t underestimate you on any other occasion. And yet…” He pushes the blade further until it draws blood this time, forcing Dean’s head back.

“… Somehow I think today you’re all bark and no bite.”

The angel looms over Dean further and snarls, “Now, I’ll ask you again. _Where is he?_ ”

“Go to hell,” Dean spits.

“No,” Red-Tie says all too calmly, “But _you_ will.”

If Dean’s afraid then it doesn’t show, because he’s too damn distracted watching Castiel creep up behind Blue-Tie in the background like a sneaky motherfucker. He witnesses Castiel swing the other crutch hard enough to knock the angel off his feet and take the blade to finish the job in a surprisingly graceful move for a guy in a cast. Red-Tie turns and it gives Dean the chance to twist the angel’s wrist in an attempt to free the blade form his hand, but the angel lands a solid punch and Dean falls back against the broken table dazed. Red-Tie straightens and turns to face Castiel who spins the blade in his hand and stands his ground.

“Good to see you, brother,” Red-Tie says coldly.

Castiel squeezes the handle of the blade and looks at Red-Tie as though he’s trying to read the fine-print on his forehead.

“You don’t recognise me?” Red-Tie says, surprise and realisation sweeping over his face as he smirks. “You can’t see me, can you?”

Castiel squints and shifts his weight onto his good foot, finding it difficult to keep this stance up.

“Oh ho ho,” Red-Tie breathes as he takes a step forward, “Yes. Yes there is _definitely_ something missing there, isn’t there?” He tightens his grip on the blade in his hand and takes another step, gradually stalking Castiel into a corner of scattered tables. “And you can feel it too, can’t you?”

Dean meanwhile is holding his head and wincing at the pain in his back as he props himself up from the broken furniture and crockery on the floor. He can see Red-Tie backing Castiel into the far wall, and without thinking (not that he really can in his current state anyway) he reaches for the knife strapped to his right calf beneath his trouser leg and just about manages to crawl his way towards the angel.

“After all the times you have wreaked havoc upon Heaven - after everything you did to pull its walls down, to drag it down with you into this filth…” Red-Tie says spiteful, “…I am finally given the chance to watch you squirm.”

Castiel’s heel hits the mound of tables and he’s nowhere to go now. So he does the only thing he can and lunges for the angel. Unfortunately Red-Tie is far stronger and counters his attack, the blades connecting with a resounding clang before Red-Tie manages to parry and graze Castiel’s left side as he dodges just barely. But Red-Tie is quick and resolute, and he connects a punch to Castiel that’s hard enough to knock him to the ground, the blade sliding from his hand.

Red-Tie looms over him and grabs him by the hair.

“You brought this upon yourself, Castiel. You would die for the humans…” Red-Tie raises his blade with purpose, “… And now you _get to die as one of them._ ”

It’s in that fleeting moment of stillness just before the arrow flies or the trigger is pulled tight and the bullet soars towards its mark that time seems to stand still. Maybe it’s a virtue of mortality; the brief glimpse of one’s final moments before the thread tears and everything falls into darkness and uncertainty. Where he will find himself is anyone’s guess. Castiel wouldn’t be at all surprised to see the fires of Hell.

It’s also in that fleeting moment of stillness that Dean slices his knife across Red-Tie’s Achilles tendon.

The angel falls to his knees cursing and Dean wastes no time grabbing the other angel blade on the floor to stick it through Red-Tie’s eye socket and end him, just as he’d said.

“ _Now_ I’m happy,” Dean says breathlessly, pulling the blade from the corpse as it falls to the floor face-first.

 

* * *

 

They stumble through the motel room door and Sam stops what he’s doing at his laptop, a wide-eyed look slapped across his features.

“Dean – _Cas!?_ ” He stares, mouth flapping. “What – _what the hell!?_ ”

“Hello Sam,” Castiel says hoarsely as Dean helps him to the nearest bed.

“H – Hey, Cas…”

He watches Dean pull Castiel onto the bed so he’s propped up against the headrest and lift his bad foot onto the bed too before sitting on the edge to check for wounds.

“What happened? I tried calling you earlier,” Sam asks as he continues to watch Dean mothering his angel, still surprised to see that Castiel is actually there in the room with them.

“Yeah, thanks for that by the way,” Dean says, a tad miffed. “Me and Cas here bumped into a couple of angry family members.”

Sam tenses up. “You guys were ambushed _by angels_!?”

“Yeah – But on the bright side we got ourselves two new shiny angel blades to add to our collection,” Dean says through a lop-sided smile.

Sam doesn’t really have much to say; because the fact that Castiel is suddenly alive and well and just so happened to be in the same town as them is a bit of an overload to his circuitry. So he goes to make them a motel-standard coffee, watching over his shoulder as Dean tends to Castiel like he’s a fragile work of origami.

“You’ve been hurt,” Dean says troubled as he observes the sticky sheen of blood on Castiel’s black tee before lifting it carefully to reveal a pretty nasty gash on his side. Dean looks at it woefully.

“Gonna need stitches."

“I’m fine,” Castiel insists.

“Uh, no you ain’t,” Dean says pointedly, bending down to rummage through his duffel bag by the side of the bed. He pulls out a small med-kit. “If you’re still hopping on one foot after all this time, and what you say about your mojo is true, then you’re gonna need to be cleaned and stitched up. Unless you wanna experience the perks of gangrene?”

Castiel huffs weakly and doesn’t make a comeback.

“Good,” Dean says, opening the med-kit and picking up a near empty bottle of vodka from the side table, pointing it at Castiel. “Shirt. Off.”

Castiel complies and removes his hoody and shirt with some difficulty, wincing at the strain to his wound. The blood has started to coagulate, but there’s still a healthy trickle oozing languidly down towards the band of his jeans.

Dean opens the bottle of vodka and braces himself. “This is gonna sting a little.”

Castiel nods, and then he winces as Dean pours a splash of the alcohol over the wound. Dean hands him the bottle and he takes a much needed swig. The cut is wiped clean, and then Dean moves on to the stitches.

“And _this_ is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Castiel looks at the almost empty bottle in his hand bleakly. “I don’t suppose you have any more of this do you?”

“Nope,” Dean says simply. “Just gonna have to man-up, Cas.”

Castiel’s face is grim and he downs the rest of the vodka quickly. Dean places his fingers either side of the wound and brings the needle to the skin. Castiel braces himself.

It’s not a particularly pleasant experience for the both of them. Castiel squirms at the discomfort, hands clutching the sheets and face screwed in pain as Dean does his best to stitch him up as quickly as possible through all the twitching, cursing at Castiel to stop moving and fucking deal with it.

Seven stitches and a whole lot of swearing later, Dean finishes up and admires his work.

“There,” he says, wiping the scar clean with a rag. “All better.”

The words aren’t exactly comforting, because it really isn’t _all better_. Not for Castiel who is virtually human now, nor for Dean who can’t stand to see his friend so beat and breakable. In those long weeks Dean had started to think that Castiel would never come back – that he was gone for good, whether it was locked up in Heaven someplace or much worse. Seeing him now, sat before him and very much _alive_ , Dean thinks he should feel overjoyed and damn near close to break dancing. But in reality it’s far more complicated.

He smoothes the rag over the scar but can’t seem to lift his hand. The heat from Castiel’s skin is radiating through the fabric separating them, and Dean finds that his thumb betrays him once more, slipping from the frayed edges of the rag to trace the smooth skin beneath. When Dean looks up, Castiel is gazing at him intensely. The silence is palpable.

Then Sam clears his throat from the other side of the bed, two mugs of coffee in hand, and Dean pulls away far quicker than actually necessary.


	4. Mirror Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Castiel's memory still hazy and no leads on Abaddon or what's causing the angels to go super nova, Sam and Dean decide to investigate a string of unusual deaths in Kansas City that lead them to an unusual source with terrible power.
> 
> Chapter Details:  
> Characters/Pairing: Pre Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Missouri, Crowley, Kevin Tran, OCs  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Mild language, references to mental health and paranoia, pie  
> Word Count: ~12,859  
> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters (unless own characters). This is purely a fan-created work of fiction and any likeness to real people or events is purely coincidental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers! Sorry this took so long but I was on holiday and then had to write the whole thing up after painstakingly plotting the outline whilst stuck on a boat in the Norfolk Broads. I've got the skeletal structure and major arc penned out too which I am VERY EXCITED about. Honestly! There are chapters further down the line I've already written and can't wait to publish.  
> Anyways, enough about that - I hope you enjoy and thanks for readying!
> 
> Song for this chapter is "Fix You" by Coldplay:
>
>>   
> When you try your best, but you don't succeed  
> When you get what you want, but not what you need  
> When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep  
> Stuck in reverse
>> 
>> And the tears come streaming down your face  
> When you lose something you can't replace  
> When you love someone, but it goes to waste  
> Could it be worse?
>> 
>> Lights will guide you home  
> And ignite your bones  
> And I will try to fix you  
> 

### Mirror, Mirror

“So, he was just _sat at a bus stop_ when you found him?” Sam says with a disbelieving look on his face as Dean throws his duffel bag into the trunk of the Impala.

“Like I said, I’m just as stumped as you are.”

“And he’s what? Been here all this time?”

“Seems that way, yeah.”

Sam frowns and looks back at the motel over his shoulder for a scant moment, and Dean wonders when he’s just going to jump straight to the point and play the ‘feelings’ card already because he damn well knows it’s coming.

“And he can’t remember what happened that night?” Sam asks instead, much to Dean’s relief. He doesn’t reply though, just shakes his head.

“Don’t you find that weird?” Sam adds with raised eyebrows like he expects Dean to sense a ‘disturbance in the force’ or something. “I mean, the guy beams up to Heaven only to wind up back here with no memory and the rest of the angels marooned too?”

Dean looks at Sam grimly because he knows where he’s going with this. He just doesn’t want to be reminded of it. And then the big guy has to go and say it outright anyway.

“This isn’t the first time Cas has come back with a few wires loose, Dean.”

 _‘A few wires loose.’_ Dean figures there’s probably far worse going on under Castiel’s hood than crappy wiring after all he’s been through. When he considers that the guy’s died and been brought back more times than he could care to count it’d be a goddamn miracle if something wasn’t lost or corrupted in the process. Crap like that changes a person, angel or not. Dean should know. Things have never really been the same since he pulled himself out of that grave five years ago.

“So what you’re saying is he’s been mind-wiped and someone else is pulling the strings again, is that it?”

Sam frowns. “All I’m saying is we can’t rule out the possibility. But whatever it is you got to agree with me here that something isn’t right.”

Dean drags a hand down his face, exhausted and quite frankly through with angels and their talent for screwing with his life and fucking up the entire planet like it’s a hobby they occupy themselves with on weekends.

“Like you said,” Sam continues, “You both took on two angels that were still strong enough to ding you up pretty good, were as Cas seems…”

“…Human,” Dean adds emptily. They both fall silent as that word really takes on its meaning and how often it’s become akin to weakness. Dean doesn’t deny that they’ve relied heavily on Castiel for his abilities, him most of all, and maybe that’s been a little selfish of him. Castiel was always their golden ticket out of impossible situations (if he wasn’t the catalyst), a well of quick fixes and favours. But that well has dried up, and Castiel is perhaps the most human of the three of them now. He no longer makes the sound of ruffled feathers in the wind when he enters a room, nor does he wear his old clothes because they are shredded from fights he couldn’t win. His voice sounds thin and riddled with doubt, and when he feigns a smile Dean sees the crinkles around his eyes have somehow deepened.

Castiel bleeds, he breaks and he feels, and once upon a time Dean would have considered that to be just deserts for an angel to learn a little humility. But that was then, and this is Castiel. This is different. _He_ is different.

“His grace is gone, Sam,” Dean says in a weak voice as he reaches for the rest of their things and throws them in the trunk. Sam suspected as much when the cast was a dead giveaway. He sighs and couldn’t look any more condoling if he tried.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” he says delicately as if the words alone could tear through the man like shards of broken glass if he doesn’t. Dean simply shrugs before his eye is drawn to the motel doorway where Castiel is now standing.

“Hey. You ready to go?”

“Dean…” Castiel groans irritably, holding his newly bandaged side with some discomfort. Dean strides over to the doorway.

“C’mon, Cas. Get your stuff. We need to haul ass outta here now before more suits decide to pick a fight.”

“Dean, we already talked about this…” Castiel says in an exhausted tone that pretty much sums up how Dean feels. “I’m not coming with you.” Dean squints.

“Like hell you ain’t,” he says as he pushes past Castiel to pick up his things for him. Castiel deliberately blocks the doorway when he returns.

“Dammit Cas!” he bites, and his eyes are a steely warning that he is by no means ready for another rejection any time soon. “You can limp your sorry ass into that car or I’m gonna drag you there myself.” He pushes the crutches into Castiel’s arms as he adds, “Either way, I ain’t leaving here without you.”

Whatever flame of defiance there was in Castiel’s eyes before is doused by the subtle wet sheen coating them the moment he blinks, losing their fierce staring contest. He takes the crutches under his arms and hobbles obediently towards the car in quiet resignation. Whether or not his sudden silence and surrender is a good thing Dean can’t decide, but he’s not about to complain either.

“Good. Glad we had this conversation,” Dean grunts as he marches over to the trunk, throws Castiel’s backpack in and slams the door with such force the car rocks. Sam flinches, clears his throat and doesn’t say a word as he gets into the passenger seat, Castiel already squinting fiercely when Dean gets in. The two of them exchange a heated look in the rear-view mirror, much to Sam’s growing discomfort, before the engine is growling and they’re speeding out of the motel car park, homeward bound.

 

* * *

 

It’s cold.

The desolate landscape and growing emptiness surrounds him once more, its iciness piercing his naked skin and seeping into the marrow of his bones.

Castiel stands alone on the endless barren desert of grey beneath a veil of black, stripped of every single star that had once hung there. He wants to run, wants to fly away, to curl up small and disappear all at once, but he doesn’t move. He can’t. The grey sand grips his ankles like clawed hands, its coarse grains like the bite of nails as it slowly pulls him further down into the earth. He wants to scream but no air fills his lungs. He’s so afraid.

 _‘Cas…’_ a familiar voice calls from over his shoulder and he turns.

It’s Dean.

 _‘Hey buddy.’_ His voice sounds otherworldly in this place, like layers from many recordings pulled together. But it’s him, and when he smiles it’s enough to chase away the cold biting Castiel’s skin.

In all the times Castiel has been stripped of everything, completely exposed before the thousands of invisible eyes in the dark, Dean has never judged him. It fills him with feelings of shame, fear, relief and something else, something so overwhelming it’s almost crippling. But no matter how much he tries, he always fails to find its name.

 _‘I need you.’_ Dean’s eyes are gleaming brilliant green, the last remaining stars in the darkness of this hopeless chasm. He extends his hand just as he had before and Castiel wants to take it, but he remembers all too well what had become of his friend the last time he had. He wants to, desperately. But he doesn’t.

Castiel shakes his head and that blanket of warmth recoils as the light in Dean’s eyes fades.

There’s a sudden gust of wind that shifts into a merciless storm, the bite of rain corroding Castiel’s fragile human skin. The storm acts like two invisible hands pulling them apart, pulling him away from Dean. He reaches out then, calls Dean’s name, and begs him not to leave him through silent cries against the roar of the elements. But it’s too late.

Dean disappears into the fog of wind, rain and sand, and all falls into darkness once more.

It’s a little after 4am when he wakes, breathing heavy and sweating profusely. At first Castiel forgets where he is, but then his mind gradually lets go of the dream and returns to the dark of his room in the bunker. He pulls himself up and reaches over to turn on the bedside lamp before resting his weary head in his hands. He breaths in deeply, counting to five before breathing out again, something Faye had encouraged to help reduce anxiety, and after a time his heart steadies and his fear subsides. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, just sits there staring into thin air, and as he does he catches his reflection in the mirror sat on top of his empty dresser. He looks ghost-like, gaunt and pale and skin somehow thinned. Sheens of cold sweat deepen the contours of his face, enhancing the dark circles surrounding his eyes.

In the four weeks without his grace Castiel has found sleep to be a not so pleasant experience. Much of the time he’s plagued by nightmares, and it’s caused him to sleep far less often as the days go by. Unfortunately this means that when exhaustion eventually creeps up on him he sleeps deeply, and his dreams are rarely pleasant ones then. But there have been merciful occasions when he could find a dreamless state if he was able to drink himself into unconsciousness on Faye’s couch.  
As he turns off the bedside lamp he considers locating the liquor to do just that and picks up his crutches propped against his side-table.

The hall is empty and it’s deathly quiet, but Castiel hobbles his way to the library where Kevin is sat at one of many desks, surrounded by a fortress of books and pieces of paper scattered in front of him in some form of organised chaos.

Castiel stops at the far end of the row of desks and leans on his crutches wearily. Kevin looks up and removes his headphones.

“Hey Castiel,” he says surprised. “Trouble sleeping?”

Castiel nods silently as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Welcome to the club. No one sleeps in this place,” Kevin mumbles before retuning his attention to the mess on his desk. Castiel sighs heavily and looks around the large room for other signs of life. There’s an empty whiskey glass on the table at the end of the row closest to him, reminding him of that nagging itch to drink and forget the nightmares and everything else with them.  On another desk a small stack of books and an empty plate occupy its surface – most likely Sam who had sat there until recently.

“If you’re looking for Dean he’s with Crowley,” Kevin says without looking up from the cryptic scratches on the angel tablet. Castiel turns but the prophet is far too busy with whatever he’s doing to notice.

“Down there and to the right - in the storage room,” Kevin adds, pointing over his shoulder. “Just follow the sounds of cursing.”

Castiel nods and makes his way out of the library in the general direction of the storage room.

 

* * *

 

The overhead light flickers as the sound of a fist meeting someone’s jaw disturbs the air within the walls of the makeshift dungeon. Dean takes a step back from a heavily bound Crowley sat in the centre of the room.

“Thank you drill sergeant, may I have another?” the King of Hell says through a mocking grin before Dean obliges.

“Y’know, I could do this all day, ‘cause it’s actually quite therapeutic. Just what the doctor ordered,” Dean quips with a smirk. Crowley spits out a mouthful of blood and chuckles lowly.

“I read somewhere that sexual frustration is one of the side effects of stress. Maybe you should find another outlet for that, if old Lefty’s lost his touch.” His bloody grin widens with the cant of his head. Of course he’s not grinning after Dean’s fist meets his face again hard enough the chair almost tips backwards. Dean grabs him by the collar to stop him from falling and looms so close Crowley could count the individual hairs of his stubble.

A moth flutters blindly against the overhanging light, casting eerie shadows in the room. Dean’s voice is low and dangerous when he speaks.

“The next time that mouth of yours starts flapping it better have something useful to say, or it’s gonna be missing a row of those pearly whites.”

He takes a step back from Crowley, rolling the ball joint of his wrist to relieve some of the tension there as he pulls out the demon knife from his jacket with the other hand. It doesn’t appear to phase Crowley one bit.

“That won’t be necessary mate. Like I said, I’ve already told you everything I know about our red-haired miscreant. She’s a bitch, I hate her guts, and you want to see them on the outside.  I’d call that a mutual hatred for a mutual pain in the arse. As for where she is? Haven’t the foggiest, but I’m fairly sure Moose managed to barbeque her nice and crispy. So you’re wasting your time playing bad cop with me.”

Dean takes a step forward and brings the tip of the knife to his throat.

“Listen here asswipe. You’re gonna tell me the names of all the demons on your payroll and all those friends of yours you’ve managed to piss off, or we’re gonna play a different game where I’m the frustrated surgeon and you’re the ungrateful sack of shit patient I accidently carve up on the operating table.” 

“Sounds kinky,” Crowley says as bloody-grin-the-sequel makes an appearance. “I’d love to help you, I really would. But you see none of those names are going to be much use to you in the grand scheme of things. You want to kill a Knight of Hell then you’re going to need more than that box opener and an angel tooth pick.”

“You wanna share something with the class?”

Crowley huffs and rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d have kept my trap shut all this time if I knew that? Not that I don’t enjoy spending quality time with you darlings, but you’re lousy hosts. And would it kill you to do some redecorating in here and throw in some TiVo while you’re at it?”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re still in one piece, ‘cause if I had _my_ way I’d have iced you by now, and I still might if you continue to piss me off,” Dean says darkly before the knife is back in his pocket and he’s turning to leave. Those words must have tickled Crowley because the grin widens mischievously as he chuckles, and the sound he makes is chilling.

“But it _isn’t up to you_ though, is it?” He squints as though he’s noticed something different about the older Winchester that he had somehow managed to miss in all those times over the past month.

“I wonder… Is the _real_ reason you let dear Moosey have his way not because you agreed with him, but because you can’t stand the thought of him hating you?”

Dean stops then, completely frozen to the spot in the open cavity of the wall. He looks over his shoulder apprehensively but doesn’t turn as the moth continues to flirt with the light overhead, casting disturbing shadows that distort the contours of Crowley’s face

“Of course, if it was me and I’d made _yet another deal_ to save his arse, well, I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my miserable existence knowing how much he hated me for it.”

There’s a suffocating feeling in Dean’s chest like an elephant’s just decided to take a nap on top of him, and suddenly the room feels all too small. It doesn’t matter that he can simply walk away from the demon chained to that chair and his poisonous words because he’ll always feel trapped no matter what he does. Even death won’t offer him any such freedom now.

“How long they give you this time?”

Dean pins him with a glare that could kill, but it’s short-lived before the pain and guilt begin to meddle with the lines of his face, aging him beyond his years. He says nothing as he walks out.

 

* * *

 

Dean strides out of the storage room when he almost knocks into Castiel.

“Jesus fuck – dammit Cas! You wanna give me a heart attack!?”

Castiel looks tired, his shoulders hunched and slouching as he puts his weight on the crutches under his arms. His sweats and tee are a size too big making him look much smaller than he really is and the sight of him only weighs Dean’s already heavy heart down further.

“You okay?” he asks weakly, shocked at himself for sounding even remotely compassionate after standing in the same room as Crowley. Castiel makes a fleeting attempt at a smile.

“As okay as I’ll ever be I suppose,” he says in a hoarse voice, adjusting his crutches. It’s still something Dean hasn’t gotten used to seeing and probably won’t either, but he knows how much of a pain in the ass a busted limb is from personal experience.

“You should be resting that foot of yours,” he says. Castiel scoffs.

“I wish people would stop telling me that. The foot is far less problematic than defecating.”

Dean’s mouth flaps like a fish out of water.

“Uh, TMI – Look, I’m telling you for good reason. It ain’t gonna heal any quicker with you skipping down the hall in the middle of the night.” When Dean looks at him more carefully he notices the extent of Castiel’s exhaustion in the way his face droops, like a veteran who never really returned from the battle field and still wakes to the sounds of gunfire and blood curdling screams.

“Why you up anyways?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, so Dean takes a step closer and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“What’s wrong buddy?” Dean asks him softly. Castiel straightens up then, or at least tries to.

“Nothing… I’ve just had a little trouble with sleeping. I’m still not used to the custom, or dreams. It can be… counterproductive. I’ve found experiencing dreams _very_ different to observing them.” He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, leaning into Dean’s touch with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just very tired.”

A part of Dean feels the urge to take the broken man in front of him into his arms and hold him close, almost as if the contact alone could somehow soak up all of Castiel’s ailments like a sponge. Dean would gladly do just that if it was at all possible, but some things are buried too deep. There are scars that will never fully heal, and the more Dean thinks about it the more it’s as though he’s standing in front of a mirror. Castiel is the torn and weary reflection of a lifetime of hardship and devotion to doing what he felt was right only to keep making the same mistakes over and over again. Though he and Castiel once stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, lost in translation and going by a different book of play, they both find themselves standing face to face on the same page now.

Dean remembers how easily Castiel had read him on their first encounter all those years ago, how he had peered into his soul and said the words that were buried deep beneath the false smiles. To this day Dean still feels that he doesn’t deserve to be saved, but for Castiel to feel the same way about himself?

_‘You can’t save everyone my friend. Though you try…’_

Dean will be damned if he’s ever going to give up on him.

It’s a shot in the dark at how long he’s got left before an eternity of reaping the dead but Dean is sure of one thing, and that’s spending the remainder of his life fixing his friend. Even if it’s the last life he ever saves.

“Say, uh…” Dean murmurs as the words get caught in his throat, “I was just gonna get some, uh, air. You wanna…”

He rubs the back of his neck and points somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder in a lame attempt to communicate because he’s too tired to fashion anything remotely coherent into words. Castiel’s eyes light up with a small spark of amusement, and he even manages to smile a little too.

“Yes, I would like to join you.”

Dean clears his throat and gives Castiel a manly pat on the shoulder.

“Great – I mean, uh, good.”

 

* * *

 

The bunker backs onto a steep slope of trees and overgrown wilderness. There’s a hidden entrance on the wall that meets the slope, and it’s through this conveniently camouflaged door that Dean emerges into the waking dawn, Castiel limping close behind.

“I found this a couple days after we unlocked this place,” Dean says like a proud kid showing off his secret hideout. The door is so well hidden they may as well have sneaked through the cracks between the bricks.

“I think this is like one of those emergency exits or something.” He climbs his way around the overgrowth, turning to give Castiel a helping hand. Castiel looks at the hand extended to him with an anxious expression, visibly shaken by how closely it resembles his dream. Dean cracks a lopsided smile.

“Gonna be a bit of climb up this slope – even for you.” He waves his hand encouragingly. Castiel looks past Dean at the steady incline and untamed wilderness of the hill ahead before meeting Dean’s eyes again as he finally takes his hand.

It’s a lot of stumbling and cursing under breath on Castiel’s part, but they soon reach the top of the slope and a little further up he can see a patch of grass that has been cleared of fallen branches and bushes. When they finally reach the top the view is worth it.

It’s high; not quite a mountain top panorama but that by no means lessens its splendour. Behind them they can see the top of the bunker and the shiny black polish of the Impala on the narrow road as it catches the early morning light. But the view from over the hill is something else entirely, and Dean has brought him to this place just in time to see the sunrise.

“Man, it makes near breaking your other foot worth it just to see _that_ , am I right?” Dean says with a smile as he looks straight ahead towards the horizon beyond the trees. They’re still holding hands too, something Castiel notices first but doesn’t mention. It’s only when he squeezes his hand tighter that Dean snaps out of his reverie and looks down at their hands sheepishly before letting go, much to Castiel’s disappointment.

Dean stretches lazily and plants his ass on the grass, arching his legs to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Sammy doesn’t even know about this place,” he says as he watches the first bands of gold begin to bleed into the fleeting night sky. “I come up here when I need to clear my head, y’know? Which is a lot of the time, now that I think about it.”

He looks up at Castiel and pats the empty space by his side. Castiel understands the gesture and sits somewhat awkwardly with his bad foot stretched out in front of him and his other leg propped up, mirroring Dean’s pose.

“Hell of a sight, ain’t it?” Dean says gazing back at the horizon. But Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean. He’s too entranced by the way the early morning light kisses his skin, giving him an ethereal glow that makes his eyes shine like two emeralds encased within a band of brilliant gold.

“Yes,” Castiel says in a quiet voice, still smiling faintly at the man by his side. “Yes it is.”

Dean continues to talk, completely oblivious. “A lot of people like sunsets and all that soppy chick-flick crap, but me?” He sighs as he watches the dawn finally break through the evening. “I prefer this. ‘Cause it’s the, I dunno… the start of something new instead of the end? Whatever. I’m no poet. I skipped most of English to study gymnastics in the janitor’s closet, if y’know what I mean.”

Dean grins at his own wise crack and a fond memory as he turns to Castiel. The second he does his grin withers, and he almost loses himself in the two blue eyes gazing back at him like _he_ is the sunrise.

They’ve shared many lingering looks in the past, many silent exchanges of understanding or angry glares, but this? This look is one that eclipses them all, and Dean has never in his ridiculously eventful life felt anything remotely like how it feels to be caught between the rising sun and two rings of blue. Those unbelievably dazzling blue rings that he can’t ever imagine living without. He may not be a poet, and the words he should say may never leave his lips, but it’s fascinating how a single name can mean a thousand and one things when it’s staring back at you upon a hill at the break of day.

The day Dean escaped Hell’s everlasting darkness was the day Castiel gave him the sunrise in the palm of his hand. Castiel is his constant, as loyal as the sun that breaks through the yawning dark and as ancient as the stars, and no matter how often that sun set on Dean it was always sure to return. It’s taken many sunrises to reach this hilltop but the view has given Dean some clarity, and whichever way he looks at it he knows that he’s hopelessly and irrevocably in love. And that scares the crap out of him.

He opens his mouth to say something just as Castiel decides to break the silence too and it becomes a modest tangle of words not so different from any awkward moment seen in almost every chick-flick ever made.

“Uh, you go first,” Dean says. Castiel looks down and a faint blush colours his cheeks, something Dean can’t help but find amusing.

“I, um…” Castiel licks his lips as he studies the grass and twigs like they hold the words he’s searching for. “I want to say thank you, for convincing me to come back with you.”

“Well it was either _that_ or I drag your ass here like I said. There was no way I was ever leaving you back there, Cas. You know that.”

Castiel smiles warmly then and looks up at Dean when he says, “I know. And I’m glad.”

Dean feels his throat dry up all of a sudden along with his mouth and lips - everything besides his sweat glands really, because despite the chill of early morning it feels like the sun is burning him up.

“Uh, that’s uh… good,” he says like the eloquent poet he really isn’t. He mentally curses his crappy brain to mouth connection because _what the hell kind of response was that?_

“Your turn,” Castiel says. Dean blinks dumbly.

“I, uh…”

Pause.

“Uh…”

Dean can feel that good for nothing blush creeping up his neck to flood his face, and no amount of denial or blaming UV rays and a patchy Ozone layer is going to save him from the obvious amusement in Castiel’s eyes or in the twitch of a smile.

“I’m glad too,” he finally manages to choke out – literally. They’re not actually the words he intended to say, but was he really going to say anything that made sense in the first place?

As for Castiel; he’s still looking at Dean like the man could catch the sun with a fishing rod and reel in the day. The evening has almost entirely withdrawn now, though its chill still clings to the morning dew hanging on to the blades of grass beneath his hands and the surrounding trees. But he doesn’t feel cold, not anymore. He’d almost forgotten what the warmth and promise of the new day had felt like, to feel safe and to _belong._

It’s no lie that he misses Heaven sometimes, but at the same time he honestly doesn’t feel like he ever truly fit in. He’s never been like the rest of his siblings, always the one to stand on the fringes of the group and see the things none of them could, the broken cog in his Father’s machine. But here, sitting on a hill next to the man he raised from Perdition and never let go of, this fragile human being that found faith in an angel with a crack in their chassis the size of the San Andreas Fault, Castiel doesn’t feel alone anymore.

Heaven never felt like this, and when he really thinks about it, maybe it never will.

Maybe _this_ is what coming home really feels like.

“That’s good,” he murmurs as he looks to the horizon. And it’s better than good.

So much better.

 

* * *

 

“This is bad.”

Sam cards a hand through his hair and slumps over one of several open books at his desk in the library. Dean pours himself a much-needed glass of the good stuff before strolling over.

“Like it wasn’t already,” he grumbles as he collapses into the seat opposite. “Let’s see – The God-Squad’s touched down, couple of them seem dead set on hitting the self destruct button, and now there’s bible bashers preaching like the world is ending - _again_. So ‘course everyone else starts emptying stores and all we’re left with is cans of freaking beans. Yeah. Things are bad alright.” He almost downs the whole drink.

“We’ve got squat on why they even fell in the first place, like what even happened up there with Cas and Metatron…” Sam says, completely at a loss as he closes the book in front of him with a dull thud. “… And whatever’s causing them to go supernova. I honestly don’t know what I’m looking for here, Dean. I mean, searching for anything on fallen angels just keeps digging up the same old stuff about Lucifer. There’s stuff about the Nephilim, but it’s pretty ambiguous.”

“Isn’t it always?” Dean says snippy as he empties his glass and considers a refill.

“And Abaddon out of commission… I really can’t take that as a good sign either.”

“Yeah, well you deep-fried her ass pretty good so I’m sure she’s out there sulking about it, and when she decides to show her face again we’ll build her a wicker man. But for now all we can do is figure out a way of icing that bitch permanently, and try to do it without getting kamikaze’d by freaking angels first.”

Sam huffs and rubs his eyes that have begun to sting from constantly studying ancient text after fucking text. “I just wish we knew more from Cas’ side of things.”

“Well, what we _do_ know is the first two ingredients on his grocery list. Whatever the hell happened in Heaven is locked away in his head someplace, and Kevin’s doing his thing with what we got. But honestly? I’m more concerned about you.”

Dean places the glass on the table, slowly turning the crystal in his palm. “You good?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Huh, Yeah… I mean, other than the crappy hand we’ve been dealt again, I actually feel fine.”

Dean clears his throat, nodding as he lifts the glass to take a drink only to find it’s already empty, so he kicks himself up from his seat to correct that. But his words have inadvertently managed to wake an old niggling uneasiness that’s been sitting in the back of Sam’s mind since he woke in the hospital. He doesn’t mention anything about it, but his temperament changes and he can’t help but feel Dean is hiding something from him, something pretty damn important.

“What about you?” he says. Dean turns as he fills his glass with yet another generous helping of whiskey.

“Me?” Dean says only a little stupefied. He raises his glass as he clears his throat, bringing it to his lips and looking at anything but his brother. “Never better.”

It’s a subtle nervous disposition that Sam instantly recognises. He could pressure Dean, but that never really ended well and right now they’re both on good terms for a change. A lot was said in that church and a lot of things were finally pulled to the surface, and the last thing he wants to do is back peddle on that progress. The fine details of his remarkable recovery can wait another day.

“Say… since we’re shooting blanks, I figured maybe we should pool our recourses into this?” Sam says as he flips open his laptop to bring up a series of news articles.

“It says here that there have been seven deaths in and around Kansas City, Missouri over the past two weeks. The feds are labelling the nature of the deaths as a series of ‘unusual circumstances’.” He looks at Dean straight-faced.

“‘ _Unusual_ ’. Well that ticks our box,” Dean says sarcastically as he wanders back to the desk to look over Sam’s shoulder at the screen. “So what we got?”

“According to this they were all killed in freak accidents. Like these two: One guy was struck by lightning on a _clear day_ as he was crossing the street, and another guy hit a deer that caused his car to _spontaneously catch fire_ , burning him alive.”

Dean blinks and takes a second to process what he’s just heard. “Okay… so we’re dealing with random acts of God and Bambi’s evil twin or what?”

“Well, they’re both pretty rare occurrences. I mean, the chance of being struck by lightning is like one in five hundred thousand or something, and I doubt there are many deer strolling the roadside with a thirst for arson. Other than the nature of death, Bambi’s vic – Mr. Scott Miller –was just your average-Joe – wife and kids, white picket fence, job as a tax accountant…”

“Mr. Suburbia then,” Dean quips, “Smells like crazy already.”

“But…” Sam adds, clicking another link to a local news article. “Three of the seven started showing symptoms of _extreme paranoia_ days before they died – Miller included.”

“So how’s that linked?”                 

“Well, here’s where it gets real interesting…” Sam scrolls down the page some more.

“Apparently a friend of Miller is currently in a psychiatric hospital after having a nervous breakdown round about the same time. None of them had previously been diagnosed with any mental illness either. I mean, if they were fine one day and then lost their mind the next, I’d class that as _pretty unusual_.”

“Great. So we’re off to crazy town then…” Dean mumbles. “Beats going on that freaky castle ride at Disneyland.” He straightens up and makes to pack his things when Sam stands.

“Hey, Dean, I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“Lawrence isn’t far from where we’re going…” Sam trails off and Dean narrows his eyes, unsure of where his brother is going with this. “…I thought maybe we could drop by Missouri’s place? She might be able to help Cas remember more about what happened to him.”

Dean can think of two solid reasons why that sounds like a bad idea. The first being the most obvious - Missouri is a _psychic_ and anything remotely close to that is treading on thin ice after Crowley managed to have a mental poke around in his insides. The second - Dean’s pretty sure the woman is determined to clobber him whether he puts his boots on her furniture or not. But neither of those excuses are very convincing, at least not to Sam.

“Right,” he says, smiling tight-lipped. “Sounds good.”

Like hell it does. The idea’s so far from good it’s reached interstellar space.

 

* * *

 

“Well bless my soul, if it isn’t Sam and Dean Winchester!”

Missouri beams at them in the doorway, a wooden spoon in hand and wearing an apron dusted in flour. She wastes no time scooping the brothers up into a surprisingly strong hug for a woman of her size, a Winchester in each arm. Sam laughs and returns the hug the best he can considering he’s built like a fucking tree, but Dean fails to dodge the inevitable and settles for a lousy pat on Missouri’s back.

“It’s been such a long time,” she says with a wavering voice as the emotions finally catch up. “I haven’t seen you boys since you buried your father.”

“Yeah, well a lot’s happened since then and the diary’s been kinda full,” Dean says as he manages to pull himself free. Missouri releases her stranglehold on Sam too and gives them a once-over. Her face falls from overjoyed to unsettled in a matter of seconds.

“Somthin’ _certainly_ _has_ happened to you two, hasn’t it?” The look she gives them sends alarm bells ringing in Dean’s ears because her freaky psychic spidey-senses are tingling and he’s no fucking idea what to do.

“There’s somethin’… unnatural about –”

“– Missouri, this is Cas,” Dean blurts out as he reveals their forgotten third member and practically pushes Castiel in front of him to create a human wall between Missouri’s questioning eyes and whatever they’re prying at. “He’s, uh, a good friend of ours. Cas, this is Missouri.”

Castiel looks completely out of his depth as he extends a hand to the buxom woman eying him just as suspiciously. “It’s a pleasure to, um, meet you –”

And then like the snap of fingers something dings on the psychic radar, and Missouri’s jaw drops.

“Good Lord,” she breathes, almost dropping the spoon in her hand. She looks to Sam and then to Dean completely bewildered before she’s looking at Castiel like he’s some sort of miracle gift rapped from God – which he pretty much is. “Beggin’ your pardon, only I coulda sworn I saw a halo behind you not a second ago.”

Castiel blanches. “It’s, um, quite alright...” He turns his head slowly to Sam who gives him an expectant look. “I assure you this isn’t the first time someone has mentioned that.”

“You don’t say?”

If anything remotely angelic still clings to his being Castiel can’t feel it, but it’s possible that this friend of the Winchesters can see something there. Perhaps it’s residual; the ghost of something that once was, now haunting the empty cavity that remains.  
He lowers his hand in resignation and Missouri senses his troubled thoughts.

“Oh honey, you’ve been through a lot haven’t you?” she says, her eyes profoundly sad as she takes his hand anyway and pats it gently. “Don’t give up hope. Sometimes the things we lost have a way of turning up in the most unexpected of places. And _sometimes_ …” Her eyes drift to Dean watching cautiously over Castiel’s shoulder, “…they’re just under a different label.”

Dean swallows thickly and retreats behind his friend again.

“C’mon in to the house. I’ll make us some tea.” The boys barely take a step before Missouri turns and Castiel practically has to dodge the spoon that’s pointing at Dean’s head in warning.

“And don’t you even think about usin’ my table as a foot rest or I’ll give you such an ass-whooping boy.”

 

* * *

 

Sam and Dean are sat at the dining table in Missouri’s kitchen planning their first point of call, which happens to be in Grandview just south of Kansas City, MO. Two of the seven victims had lived there, one of them the unfortunate driver in the arson-deer incident which Dean still thinks is up there on his list of weird shit, and he’s come across _a lot_ of weird shit in his lifetime.

Sam is sorting the logistics and babbling about something to do with a psychiatric centre, but Dean isn’t paying much mind to any of the details because his attention is elsewhere. He watches the two people sat on the couch in the next room through the open wall with uneasiness.  
Missouri has a hand on Castiel’s. Her eyes are closed and she looks like she’s trying to navigate through a maze blindfolded. It’s unsettling for Dean, given the last psychic to come across Castiel had her eyes burned from her skull, and who’s to say poking around in the guy’s head won’t cause just as much damage? Even if she manages to recover his memories, what if they’re fractured for a reason and piecing them back together again does more harm than good?

_What if Cas goes crazy bee-loving naturist again?_

“Hey – did you even hear a word I just said?”

Dean flinches and turns his head to where Sam is waiting expectantly for a reply from across the table.

“Yeah, sure. Something about Crazy Number Four and you paying him a visit,” he quips just to hide his worry.

“I didn’t say it was – Dean, who says I’m doing this one alone?”

“Me.”

Sam’s face is stony and if looks could kill then hell, Dean may as well jump into an early grave.

“C’mon Sammy! I ain’t going back to the laughing academy. There’s enough crazy to go round between the three of us.”

“Right,” Sam says flatly as he shuts his laptop and stands. “But _you_ get Bambi.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Will you boys knock it off before I come in there n’ knock both your heads together,” Missouri hollers from the couch. Sam apologises like the gentle giant he is as he leaves the room and Dean remains in his seat, a dumb look plastered across his face. He can see Castiel and Missouri are staring at him from the corner of his eye and suddenly it’s like he’s back in the 7th grade.

“What?” he spouts defensively before he’s on his feet and out the front door to wait for Sam in the car.

Castiel watches him leave and continues to follow his trail down the path – as much as he can make out at least through the net curtains hanging over the bay windows.

“Don’t you worry yourself about him honey. He’s just restless is all, and confused – like yourself.” Missouri pats his hand gently. “Cloudy memories aside, I want you to tell me what you’re feelin’.”

Castiel gives her the look he makes when something flies straight over the top of his head or he misinterprets a reference. “I’m not sure what you mean by that exactly.”

“I mean how you feel about Dean,” she says candidly. Castiel squints.

“But you can sense that as a psychic.”

“I know. But I want to hear what _you_ think.”

He pulls back a fraction and his brow creases, unsure of what to say, because whenever he tries to make sense of the stew of emotions in his head it’s like trying to separate salt from sand. For a long time he’s felt drawn to Dean, something always there like an invisible rope, and whenever Dean would lose his hold on their never ending mountain climb Castiel would be his anchor to save his fall, or fall with him.

“I… um…”

“It’s okay honey. Take all the time you need.”

He rubs his knees and tries his best to interpret what he can, but it’s no easy feat when human emotions have virtually been alien to him until recently. How does one speak a language they’ve never learnt?

“I… I don’t know. I guess I feel scared… scared of losing him, of hurting him…” He turns the palms of his hands skyward on his lap and looks down at them, imagining them bloody, balling them into fists. He recalls the carpet of lifeless Dean Clones he’d left whilst under Naomi’s control, sees Dean on his knees in Lucifer’s Crypt, begging him to stop –

“Hurting him again…”

Missouri places a comforting hand on his wrist. “What else?”

“Guilt.” He squeezes his eyes shut, remembering his betrayal, the look on Dean’s face and the sadness that lit his eyes from a ring of holy fire. “The shame of bringing him further pain. I hurt Sam too… I – I don’t expect I shall ever find forgiveness for that.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure ‘bout that now,” Missouri says resolutely, and it’s enough to pull Castiel away from those dark memories to the comfort of a cosy living room in a homey little house in Lawrence, Kansas. He relaxes with a drawn out breath, hands unclenched and arms limp.

“Those boys –” Missouri sighs. “I’ve never known such devotion, after what they’ve been through. They’re a fine mess on the inside, but that hasn’t stopped them from tryin’ to mend the rest of us –that goes for you too.”

“I’ve never done much good though,” Castiel says forlorn.

“Honey – you need to step out from under that raincloud over your head n’ take a good hard look at the blue skies behind it. Those boys care about you, deeply – Dean most of all. I know you’ll see that eventually. But you gotta learn to forgive _yourself_ first.” The warmth in her eyes is sincere. Castiel can see why Sam was so eager to visit.

“And when you do?” She smiles softly. “Those _other feelins’_ you _didn’t_ mention will make sense.”

 

* * *

 

After a visit to Kansas City Police Department followed by the morgue, Dean comes to three conclusions: That there’s no ancient fairy spells, witch-craft or demons at play; that all this talk about suicidal deer is making him hungry for a veal sandwich; and that if he had to live with the woman he’s currently questioning he’d have gone mad too.

He’s sat on the pristine leather sofa in the late Scott Miller’s house down in Grandview, once again posing as an FBI agent. Today he’s Agent Lamont.

“So uh, Mrs. Miller,” Dean says through a forced smile and a squint because the interior decorating is so spotlessly white it’s causing enough glare to fucking blind him, “Can you tell me more about your husband? Like, did he have any strange hobbies? Collect any antiques with weird markings? Any enemies? That sort of stuff.” The manner in which he says that is so offhanded anyone would think _he_ was the nutcase. The jury’s still out on that one.

Mrs. Miller glowers. “My husband hit a deer on the 71 leaving work. Why does the FBI need to know any of that?”

“No, I understand that. But we, uh, just need to –”

“– He was always coming home late. He said he needed to finish a few things but I suspected he was seeing the spindly blonde secretary – so _there’s_ his hobby for you,” Mrs. Miller says bitterly as she uses her Kleenex to polish the faintest of smudges on the glass coffee table with ferocious determination.

“Okay…” Dean says with unease, watching the woman immediately discard the Kleenex in a nearby waste basket and proceed to lather her hands in antibacterial alcohol from a bottle on the same table. Dean clears his throat.

“What, uh, what about the paranoia? Can you tell me more about that?” Dean already has some idea of where that may have come from.

“Well –” Mrs. Miller huffs. “He was never the paranoid-type up until about a week ago – never anxious really, even with all the work he was _supposedly_ doing. But it was the morning after he and the kids went with Glen to that carnival in town. I thought something had spooked him. He kept having nightmares – the same nightmare come to think of it. He was changed after that.” She takes another Kleenex from one of several boxes and blows her nose, discarding it and repeating the hygiene ritual from earlier.

“What did he say about the nightmare?” Dean asks, pen ghosting the open pages of his pocket notebook.

Mrs. Miller looks anxious as she continues to rub her hands raw.

“It sounds crazy, which it is, but…” She bites her lip. “What happened to him – the accident? It’s like he had a premonition. He’d have the same dream about crashing on the US-71. I told him it was just nightmares and he’d been watching too many horror movies with Glen. But when it _actually happened_ …” Her hands still and she gazes out of the window forlorn. “I didn’t mention that to the police. They’d probably think _I_ was crazy too…”

The pen in Dean’s hand hasn’t made a scratch in the notebook because _freaky visions_ and _premonitions_ are starting to sound awfully familiar, like a page ripped straight out of the past (or one of the Carver Edlund novels) and for some reason it makes him feel incredibly uneasy. That’s about the point he decides to politely dismiss himself before the cracks in his composure start to seep and he ends up bleeding disinfectant all over the carpet.

 

* * *

 

Sam walks into the recreation room of a Kansas City Psychiatric Hospital and finds the man he’s looking for sat at a table with a bowl of M&Ms to one side and in the midst of a card game with fellow patients.

“Glen Hancock?”

Glen cranes his head to look at the giant of a man interrupting him.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Agent Cranston with the FBI,” Sam says as he flashes his badge. “I’m here to talk to you about Scott Miller?”

Glen recoils in his seat and would have tipped the bowl of candy onto the floor if Sam’s reflexes weren’t at peak performance.

“Game’s over boys,” Glen says anxiously to the other men at the table as he squirms his way out of his seat. Sam follows him, candy still in his hands, and tries to settle the man’s nerves by apologising for the intrusion.

“I understand you’re incredibly shaken by his death and I offer you my condolences,” Sam says in puppy-mode, “but I need to ask you a few questions about what happened.”

Glen blanches. “You serious? A _fed_ wants to hear what the ‘ _crazy guy_ ’ has to say?”

“We’re not all one-sided,” Sam says with feeling. “Trust me – some of us _know what it’s like_.”

Glen looks at him quizzically. “And _you_ know, huh?”

Sam could list the reasons to justify his claim but that list would give the length of one of Crowley’s contracts some fierce competition, and he’d rather not remember any of it really.

“What you wanna know?” Glen eventually says after finding something genuine in Sam’s argument.

They sit at one of the tables and Sam proceeds to ask Glen questions regarding Miller’s sudden mental-shift and his view on recent events.

“You’re here about the visions, right?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You _saw things?_ ”

Glen takes a handful of M&Ms and crunches on them loudly. “Oh, I _saw things_ alright,” he says wryly as he chews. “Things I don’t need to know…”

“What sort of things?”

Glen swallows and immediately places his hand back into the bowl. “The future.”

Both of Sam’s eyebrows are sky-high now, and there’s a mixture of surprise and intrigue on his face as he blinks, repeating Glen’s words back to him slowly.

“Sounds _crazy_ , right?” Glen says sarcastically before stuffing his face with more candy. “But it’s the truth. Scott saw it too – well, he saw _his_ future, not mine. But he told me about it and I talked about what I saw. ‘Cause we both looked into the same mirror y’see.”

Sam leans forward and makes his serious face. “Wait – did you just say a _mirror?_ ”

“That’s right.”

“And where was this?”

Glen means to grab another handful of M&Ms but he changes his mind, and his expression grows sullen. “At the carnival that’s in town, about a week ago.” He wraps his arms defensively across his chest and stares down at the table.

“There’s this haunted house amusement that Scott’s kids wanted to go in. Just a bunch of old gags and smoke machines, nothing scary. And there was this room of mirrors at the end of it – loads of them for a ride that size if you ask me. Y’know, the ones that stretch and bend your reflection? But then one of them didn’t…”

Sam leans in further. “What did you see?”

Glen swallows thickly. “It was… it was like it _knew me._ Showed a bunch of stuff that happened in the past first like it was reading my thoughts, but it was only the bad things… stuff I could do without remembering. Then it was like something out of _Lord of the Rings_. Loads of flashing images of places, people, trippy stuff like that.” He looks at Sam then, and his face is white as a sheet.

“And then I saw my death.”

Sam’s eyebrows do that scrunch thing they do when he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “You saw _how you die_?”

Glen tightens his grip on his arms and shrinks in on himself. “I get kebab’d, like in the _Omen_.”

Sam blinks.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Glen continues, “That it’s nuts? But I’m not lying. I _know what I saw_. And what Scott saw came true. I’m not taking any chances.”

Glen leans over the table and mimes a whisperer. “Between you and me – I’m only in here ‘cause it’s safer then _out there_.” He points at the windows a little over-enthusiastically as he continues to say under his breath “Won’t happen if I don’t walk into it, you get me?”

“Yeah…” Sam says slowly, Glen’s words about being impaled still stuck on a constant loop in his head. It really does sound an awful lot like the ramblings of a disturbed individual, but there are the bright banners of a warning signal flying high here and to Sam it’s spelling out the crooked letters of something he’s definitely familiar with.

 

* * *

 

Dean gets into the driver’s seat of the Impala and closes the door as he presses the speed dial on his cell phone.

“Hey. So I just finished at Miller’s place and it’s been, uh, _enlightening._ Seems like both of them were paranoid – his wife thinks he was sleeping with the secretary.” Dean peers through the window back at the house, one of many pristine suburban dwellings with perfect lawns that make Dean feel like he’s on the set of _Edward Sissorhands_.  

“I’m telling you Sammy, crazy attracts crazy. I just spent half an hour with Howard Hughes in drag. What’s the news on Captain Cuckoo?”

 _‘Well,_ enlightening _isn’t the word,’_ Sam’s uneasy voice comes through the phone. _‘I think we’re dealing with a cursed object.’_

Pause.

“You’re freaking kidding me.” Dean furrows his brow as the prospect of this being a mere case of delusional paranoia and coincidence plummets.

Nothing good ever came from dealing with cursed objects.

 _Ever_.

“You serious? Like what? Someone hoodoo-voodoo’d a copy of _Final Destination_ and gave the vics seven days?”

 _‘Try a mirror_. _’_

 “Wow, okay then. _That’s_ original,” Dean says in all manner of sarcasm.

Sam sighs exasperatedly down the phone. _‘Look. Come pick me up. We need to drop by the local carnival to check out one of the rides.’_

“Great,” Dean says wryly. As if he wasn’t on a fucking mental merry-go-round already with Castiel still on his mind. “I’ll get us some balloons and cotton candy, and you can have your picture taken with Krusty the Clown.”

Sam hangs up.

 

* * *

 

 

They happen to stroll into the carnival on one of its busiest days, so it goes without saying that Dean finds himself caught in a hive of chaos and apprehension that seems to encompass all aspects of his life recently. And hell if the clowns aren’t his subconscious laughing at him then they’re just there to scare the crap out of Sam – which they still do.

“So what’s the spiel on this mirror?” Dean says as he hands Sam a generous stick of luminescent pink cotton candy. It’ll probably make his piss glow in the dark later, but Dean doesn’t give a shit and proceeds to attack half of the sickly sweet fluff as Sam gladly takes the distraction.

“From what Glen said it’s able to poke around in a person’s memory bank,” Sam says as he picks a piece of the pink cotton candy from the cloud the size of his head, “like it’s reading their soul. But it only picks out the things they’re not proud of.”

“Sounds like Bloody Mary the sequel if you ask me,” Dean adds with a shrug.

“Well, the Bloody Mary case wasn’t localised to a single mirror. She used mirrors to see a person’s secrets but she didn’t reveal anything beyond the past or present. We’re definitely looking at a single object here.” Sam hands Dean his barely-touched stick of cotton candy and proceeds to tinker with his phone.

“I looked up a technique called ‘scrying’ which claims to open a window into the future by using water, smoke or reflective objects – _such as a mirror_. Only, I’m guessing this has some sort of curse if it’s being selective. It may even be _creating_ these weird occurrences which otherwise wouldn’t have happened if the vic hadn’t looked into it.”

“So we’re looking for a mirror that reflects the soul, has a kink for the dark-side, and curses you with stuff ripped straight out of _The_ _Twighlight Zone_?” Dean says holding the bare stick of his own treat in one hand and moving on to stuffing his face with Sam’s in the other. “Best not hang it on the walls in congress.”

A group of excited kids dart past them holding balloons and heading straight for the largest attraction at the carnival: a mock haunted house with garish decorations and a large banner with the words _“_ House of Horrors _”_ in lights on the top. It looks like your average cheesy haunted fun-house on the outside, and Dean struggles to think how an evil mirror of doom could be hanging inside.

Dean looks at his cotton candy and a switch flips in his head like one of those comical light bulbs in cartoons.

“Doesn’t this whole thing sound like comeuppance to you?”

Sam looks at him curiously, then at the cotton candy. “You mean like _just deserts_?”

“Yeah. Think about it. Miller was cheating on his wife, you said Hancock gambled his girlfriend’s life savings away, and you don’t see _everyone_ walking out that house looking like they’re about ready to cartwheel their way into a padded cell.”

“But _Gabriel_ was the trickster… And _he’s dead_ , Dean.”

Dean shrugs and sticks a handful of the cotton candy in his mouth. “Just a theory.”

“Look, I still think the cursed object is the strongest lead we’ve got,” Sam says, pocketing his phone. “And there could have been a long list of deaths caused by this thing that we don’t even know about since the carnival arrived two weeks ago. Maybe the reason why it’s so selective is because the chances of everyone looking into that one mirror are slim.”

“Good point,” Dean says as he throws the empty stick into a nearby trashcan and nods at the House of Horrors amusement a few rides away from the food stand they’re stood at. “Let’s get this over with.”

There’s a massive line outside of the amusement, and when they manage to have a word with the owner they don’t discover anymore than what they already knew.

“Even the folks leave the house with a few chills now n’ then. It’s _supposed_ to be scary,” the owner says, unable to identify any of the known victims that had wandered into it a week earlier.

With no further leads the boys agree the best course of action should be to come back after hours and take a private tour of the House of Horrors then.

 

* * *

 

 

The evening rolls on in pretty quickly as Sam and Dean sit at Missouri’s dining table, filling up on good home-made apple pie. Dean leans back in his chair, belches loudly with an exaggerated stretch to show his satisfaction and Missouri immediately gives him a curtly whack on the ear.

“When you’re under my roof you’ll show some manners,” she says, taking the empty plate from the table. Sam grins as he continues to finish off his own slice.

Dean simply shrugs and leans further back on his chair so he’s balancing on the back two legs as he sneaks a peek through the beaded curtains in the open wall. He can just make out the sleeping form of Castiel in the dark of the living room, sprawled out on the couch, an arm dangling over the edge and the blanket a balled mess.

“He still catching some zzz’s?” Sam asks with inquisitive eyes and midway through another fork-load of pie. Dean almost falls backwards on his chair and has to reach out and grab the edge of the table in downright comical fashion.

“That boy’s been sleepin’ like the dead all afternoon,” Missouri says as she places a generous slice of pie onto another plate. “And I can’t blame him – with what he’s got shelved in that head of his I’m surprised he sleeps at all. It’s bound to affect him one way or another.”

Dean clears his throat and looks at Missouri. “How’d that go by the way? The whole mind-meld thing.”

Missouri sighs. “I did what I could to help him think a little clearer, but it’s up to him now.”

“Can’t you tell us _anything_?”

“I’m no miracle worker. What I got’s what I got,” she scorns before her expression is gentle again. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Dean looks away to Sam and then his eyes fall in glum resignation. He feels a hand on his shoulder and Missouri is by his side, holding the plate in front of him.

“Here. Why don’t you go take this to him? I’m sure he’s hungry now.”

Sam finishes his own slice and makes for the sink to do the dishes before Missouri can object, and Dean thinks it’s more a step to give him some privacy with Castiel than an act of gratitude. Well, it’s most likely both on equal terms.

He doesn’t turn on the light when he walks into the living room and stands sheepishly by the couch. Castiel’s chest rises and falls steady in the depths of sleep, his face completely placid and hair flat against his forehead in need of a wash. There’s also the beginnings of that peach fuzz, and Dean doesn’t know how long he’s been stood staring at him before Castiel’s eyes peel open slowly and he’s staring back, dazed.

“Dean?”

Dean immediately thinks about doing a 180 back into the kitchen but Castiel is already sat up on the couch, so he just stands there dumbly. Castiel stretches his arms above his head with a yawn and Dean notes the shirt riding up his torso with a quick smack of his lips as he swallows thickly.

“I, uh…” he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off that band of exposed skin under layers of shirts and a red hoody. “...brought pie.”

 Castiel’s eyes light up at that. “Cherry?”

“No, uh, apple,” Dean replies distantly. He hands him the plate and fork, stood on the spot like he’s got pins and fucking needles as Castiel swings his legs off the couch and straightens up. Dean’s seconds away from making a dash for the kitchen when Castiel pats the free space by his side and says “sit.”

So Dean does.

“This is really good,” Castiel says through a generous mouthful of pie. “Not as good as cherry, but still really good. Thank you.”

“I always liked both,” Dean says without much thought, too distracted by the tiny flakes of pastry stuck to his whiskers. “How’s the, uh, noggin?”

“Better, I think,” Castiel says, practically shovelling the desert into his mouth and Dean worries that he might choke if he forgets how to chew first. “It’s, um, not as up-to-speed as it used to be. I think I’m starting to forget things – other things. I can’t remember a single word of Akkadian.”

“Sounds like a dead language anyways.”

“That’s not my point,” Castiel says, placing the plate on his lap and canting his head in dismay. “Someday I won’t be able to remember most things I knew as an angel. All of those memories, the knowledge, the history. They _won’t be there_ , Dean.”

“So you make new ones – learn new stuff,” Dean says, trying to cheer him up. “Try new things. Like that pie.”

Castiel smiles fondly at his plate. “I do like this pie. And I have been trying many things, not just pastries. There are a lot of _really good_ recipes for cooking chicken that I never knew existed. It’s remarkable what you can do with poultry.”

Dean just blinks at that and takes a fork-full of half eaten pie from Castiel’s lap because _one does not simply waste pie._ It’s only after he’s shoved it into his mouth that Castiel, still staring into thin air whimsically, smirks to himself.

“And then there’s sex.”

Dean chokes as a chunk of apple-infused pastry nearly goes down the wrong tube and he looks at Castiel thunderstruck.

“You… you telling me someone _swiped your V-card?_ ” he wheezes. Castiel looks at him confused as to why his friend didn’t know that already.

“If that is a reference to having sexual intercourse then yes, Faye swiped my card.”

There’s a grin tugging on the corners of Dean’s open mouth he can’t control because the news of his best buddy finally getting himself laid is a refreshing change from all the negativity that’s been tainting the air. Castiel smiles back knowingly, the smug bastard.

“All things considered,” Castiel says, “I think the future looks a lot brighter despite my memory and the foot and how I have a tooth that won’t stop aching. I’m approaching being human in a new light. It’s actually not so bad. You are resilient and adaptable creatures, and that has always fascinated me about you.”

“That’s the spirit man,” Dean says with a pat on his back. He can’t put into words how good it feels just to see Castiel smile like that.

 

* * *

 

The Impala rolls to a stop outside of the carnival and Dean kills the engine. He and Sam gather a few essentials from the trunk – the sort of things needed for explicitly breaking the law by breaking and entering. Not that it was ever something they took seriously in the first place.

“Hey, I was thinking…” Sam says as he picks out a crowbar and pair of pliers, “… about going to mom and dad’s grave tomorrow.”

Dean hums disinterested as he loads his Colt .45 MK IV. Sam pauses, waits for more of a reaction, but he doesn’t get one.

“You coming?”

Dean clears his throat. “No– no you go and do… whatever it is you do. I’ll pass.” He stuffs the gun in the band of his jeans and closes the trunk. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The carnival looks like the perfect setting for a horror film in the dead of night, and it’s eerily quiet. They approach the House of Horrors amusement through the ghost town of unmanned attractions and rides, the only source of light seeping from their flashlights. The entrance to the amusement is bolt-locked, so Sam hands Dean the pliers as he keeps watch.

“Fallen dicks, demons, Knights of Hell – freaking _curses_. Man do I miss a good old fashioned salt n’ burn,” Dean grumbles as he finally manages to cut through the lock and it falls to the ground with a loud _clang_ in the dead silence.

The makeshift house is just as creepy on the inside as it is on the outside if not creepier, and it doesn’t matter that the cobwebs are fake and the décor is tacky or that the ghoul in the coffin nailed to the wall is in desperate need of repainting. Sam feels uneasy, and the rooms themselves only serve to strengthen that uneasiness.

They pass an attempt at some sort of demonic creature attached to a mechanism in the wall, obviously designed to pop out when the attraction is running.

“If they only knew the real deal,” Dean quips as he shakes his head.

Eventually they reach what they came for. There are mirrors spanning the length and breadth of narrow passageways like a maze, each one distorting their reflections just as Glen had said. And then it occurs to them that they have absolutely no idea where the one they’re looking for is. The mirrors are practically identical.

“Well fuck,” Dean says just as Sam thinks the same thing. He spins the crowbar in his hand and rolls his shoulders. “Ready for another six hundred years of bad luck?”

“Wait! –” Sam shouts, grabbing the crowbar just as Dean makes to swing for the nearest mirror. “We don’t need to level the place. The mirror doesn’t distort your reflection, remember? So we just find one that doesn’t, and take care of it.”

“That’s, uh, a lot more work than just burning the needle _with_ the haystack, Sammy.”

“And it’s also a lot less messy.”

Dean snorts. “Whatever, dude. Let’s just hurry the hell up and get it over and done with. This place is starting to give me the heebie jeebies.”

They split up, Sam holding the pliers in hand as he takes one passageway and Dean still gripping the crowbar tightly as he treads the other. Their reflections are askew in every mirror they pass, each one finding different ways to disfigure their faces, making them almost unrecognisable. If Dean didn’t already hate what he sees in the mirror back home on a daily basis then he does now, and he’s surrounded. There are dozens of him, each with a different face and watching back with distorted eyes as individual shades of a whole grotesque picture. By this point, Dean’s about ready to smash the lot of them.

The mirrors Sam passes are no less unforgiving, but he’s focused on the matter at hand. He turns through the maze down another identical passageway. He must be close to the exit now, and still there’s no sign of the one he’s looking for. But just as he’s turning to retrace his steps he sees something at the corner of his eye, like another figure was captured for a scant second in a mirror towards the exit. He immediately thinks it may have been Dean, flashing the light ahead of him and whispering his name into the empty space there. No reply.

He takes cautious steps towards the mirrors just before the bend in the maze and as he draws closer discovers that one of them is cloudier than the rest, a possible imperfection in the glass. He tightens his grip on the pliers, a twitch of suspicion and apprehension in his fingers as he continues to walk onward and it becomes evident that the cloudiness is something more than a defect. It’s _moving,_ rippling steadily from the outside in like murky water. The second he’s within mere feet of the strange glass Sam feels like he’s paralysed, unable to lift the pliers in his hand to destroy it or turn away. And that’s when he sees them.

It’s just as Glen had described – fragmented and a terrifying trip into his past as it plays before his eyes at high speed like someone pushed the fast-forward button, selective and unmerciful with its reveal. He sees Jess burning – Ruby – his addiction to demon blood – all the lies and betrayals – breaking the final seal as he killed Lilith. He feels the guilt, the pain, the fear, the failure – everything he’d buried deep and banished beneath layers of repressed anger dragged to the surface kicking and screaming, and he visibly trembles, unable to draw breath. But the mirror is not done with him yet. It continues to taunt him, feeding his most recent torment – how he’d poured his heart out in front of Dean in the church and how still, despite his intentions to put a stopper in Hell’s invasion as the world’s favourite martyr, the fires continue to spread.

And then the pictures shift into unfamiliar territory.

The images are blurry like fog on a windshield but the first reveals to him three women, each smartly dressed and one holding a leather-bound book – the words pop out at him in gold leaf, foreign but unmistakable – then there are many men and women, some with black eyes and others with silhouettes of torn wings – men and women stand in a ring of blue flames and disappear into a cloud of brilliant white – a sign by an obscure road that reads _Tempus_ – and then Abaddon appears, smirking as if she is standing right there in front of him behind a plane of glass. And just as she recedes into the murky depths, Sam sees his own reflection return.

But his eyes are not his own, and neither is the taunting smile curving his lips. Panic builds in his chest as he stares in horror, unable to blink or turn away from the creature that wears his face and knows him inside and out, the tormentor of his mind and soul. The image grows bolder, its colours brighter than the world in which Sam stands, tainted red and bleeding through the barrier that separates them, the grand silhouette of fully formed wings arching behind him in terrifying splendour.

And just as the mirror appears to reach the final page of its horror story Sam hears Dean’s voice scream through the deafening thrum of his own heart before a bullet buries itself between the reflection’s eyes. The glass shatters into a thousand pieces, and Sam falls to the floor, gasping for air like a man saved from drowning.

“Sam! Sammy!?” Dean pulls Sam up into his arms, a hand behind his head and close to having a breakdown himself.

“Dean! I – the mirror –”

“It’s okay. I took care of it, Sammy.”

“– But the – the things I saw –”

“– are _gone_ ,” Dean says resolutely. “The mirror’s gone. And we’re going.”

Sam blinks tightly and Dean helps him to his feet. They make for the exit as fast as Dean can manage baring most of Sam’s weight on his shoulder and then they’re in the car and headed straight for Lawrence, breaking every speed limit and traffic law in the state.

 

* * *

 

 

“You boys take good care of yourselves, you hear me?”Missouri says with a wavering voice as she hugs Sam tightly on the doorstep of her home. “And take care of each other.”

“We will,” Sam says, squeezing back before she finally releases him and he walks to the Impala parked on the curb in the early morning light. She gives Castiel the same bone-crushing embrace, near winding him.

“And you remember what I said,” she tells him. Castiel simply nods and smiles, following Sam not too long after. Missouri turns to the last of the trio and gives him a long hard look.

“Thanks for the pie –” Dean says before he’s interrupted.

“I don’t know what it is you’ve done to yourself Dean Winchester, but whatever it is –”

“– ain’t worth you worrying over me,” he says firmly. Missouri straightens up, holding her tongue and probably reading the fine print of his soul as far as Dean knows.

“I always used to think you had a guardian angel perched on your soldier when you were a boy,” she says with sincerity, her eyes still glazed with farewell-tears. “I wasn’t wrong.”

Dean drinks in a long hard breath of the crisp morning air and looks back to the Impala as Castiel is clumsily getting into the passenger seat, sighing heavily at the spectacle.

“ _Tempus fugit_ , Dean,” Missouri says softly. “ _Time flies._ So don’t waste it.”

Dean swallows thickly at the sound of those words and looks down. “Be seeing you,” he says quietly before walking to the car.

Sam sits in his seat, lost in his own thoughts and staring through the windshield as Dean gets into the driver’s seat. He looks at Sam. “You okay?”

Sam blinks and smiles fleetingly as he nods, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Dean notices.

“That mirror was a cursed object, Sammy. You said so yourself.” Sam doesn’t react to that, so Dean continues, “It was screwing with you.”

“But –”

“– And it’s history now. No mirror, no curse. Okay?”

Sam smiles hollowly again and nods, looking out the passenger window at his shaken reflection in the glass.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, distantly. “It’s history.”

 


	5. Bad Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance stop for gas in a town called Aurora finds Sam and Dean investigating a mysterious death in a library linked to a vanishing treasure that may just be the start of many deaths to follow. Expect plenty of Sherlock Holmes references, and for those of you familiar with anime... you'll see...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Details:**  
>  Characters/Pairing: pre Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OCs, Jody Mills, Kevin Tran  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** Mild gore, immoral decisions, references to pop culture  
>  **Word Count:** ~18,100  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters (unless own characters). This is purely a fan-created work of fiction and any likeness to real people, places or events is purely coincidental.
> 
> Authors notes:
> 
> Lord was this chapter hard to write! It's also the longest I've written for a single segment in a fic... and I'm fairly certain it won't be the last lengthy instalment for this story either. Please don't hate me for taking so long to get this published, or for giving you so many words to read! ;_;
> 
> Anyway, there's an obvious influence for this chapter, and plenty or references which I hope you'll enjoy. I'm not guaranteeing it's error free or 100% accurate to source material, but hey. I'm only human, and this chapter was a beast. Got to say though... I've loved trying my hand at the whole "A B C" structure of narrative arcs that Supernatural tends to abide by, and this *hopefully* is a worthy attempt. It certainly won't my last. ;) Enjoy! And thanks for reading!
> 
> Song for this chapter is "Nothing Left To Say" by Imagine Dragons:
>
>>   
> Who knows how long I've been awake now?  
> The shadows on my wall don't sleep  
> They keep calling me  
> Beckoning...
>> 
>> Who knows what's right?  
> The lines keep getting thinner  
> My age has never made me wise  
> But I keep pushing on…  
> 

### Bad Blood

**_Colorado Medical School, Aurora, Colorado_ **

A delivery man enters the library, pushing a large crate on a cart. One of its wheels screeches defiantly, piercing the heavy late-night silence like nails on a chalkboard, though the room’s many empty seats are the only occupants disturbed. The noise stops abruptly at the help desk, and the delivery man lumbers his way to it before slamming his clipboard against the chipped surface with an offensive _crack._

“Package for a Miss Andersen,” he shouts, peering over and around the stacks of books lining the unmanned desk. When no answer follows he hits the desk again, louder.

“We have a bell, you know…”

The delivery man turns to find a fair-haired young man glaring at him from a row of bookcases - probably a student if the cursory attire and bruised eyes of an insomniac are anything to go by. The delivery man snorts and looks back at the desk. He finds the bell behind a medical encyclopaedia and picks it up, deliberately placing it in view before hammering it with his clipboard just as hard as he had the desk a moment earlier.

“Package for Miss Dina Andersen,” the man says in a condescending tone, “That you, Goldilocks?” The fair-haired young man says nothing as he continues to glare from the bookcase with the empty, emotionless countenance of a mannequin.

“That would be me,” another voice calls, followed by the light tread of hurried footsteps as a woman with long auburn curls appears. The delivery man hands her the clipboard and she scribbles her signature down in a hurry, her eyes glued to the crate the entire time. The sight of it appears to make her anxious and incredibly eager to move it somewhere less conspicuous.  
As soon as she returns the clipboard the delivery man tips the cart, unloading it of its heavy cargo before heading for the exit. Dina blanches.

“H- hey! Hey wait a minute! You can’t just leave this here —”

“Uh, yeah I can,” the delivery man says with a shrug, “I bring you the box, I leave you the box. You want the box moving? Then hire someone else.” He kicks open the doors and wheels the cart out leaving Dina with the crate still parked in front of the desk, the arrow-label on one of its faces with the words “this way up” flipped upside down.

“What an asshole,” the young man mutters, scrunching his nose. Dina looks at him.

“Now, Aaron. There’s no need to use that kind of language.”

“There is if there’s an asshole in the building.”

“And an attitude like that isn’t going to change people. It only —”

“Lowers me to their level. Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Dina gives him a knowing and pitying look. “I heard about the verdict.”

Aaron’s entire body instantly grows taut and defensive. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to, because the apprehension etched into each tired line and dark circle is like words impressed on a page, and to Dina they are as easy to read as any book.

“If you want to talk about it, you know I’m always here to listen,” she presses, gently.

“What’s there to talk about?” Aaron says coldly, narrowing his eyes and deepening the premature lines there. “He dodged real justice, and he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“I do hope you mean that within the legal context.”

Aaron scowls. “ _Legal?_ ” he says lowly, “After what he did? You really think that word matters to me anymore? He walked away from that car wreck. She didn’t. And now he’s out there breathing free air he has no right to. That wasn’t justice.”

“The law would disagree —”

“The law’s _broken_!” Aaron’s eyes are wild, simmering with a caged rage, barely restrained within clenched fists and gritted teeth. Each time it rears its ugly head it tears away a piece of the young man it calls its prison. And each time, Dina fears it will be the last bar to buckle, and the monster will be free. She cranes her head and her eyes grow steely. There is something ancient and dangerous behind them that seems alien in the guise of a mild mannered librarian - more ominous than your typical typecast shrew, and far more convincing.

“Fate is not something one meddles with so lightly, Aaron. The agency of life and death is not God’s merchandise for you or any other to lay claim to. No one should have that kind of authority, least of all any of us. It may seem obscure, but I find that mercy often bears richer fruits than strict justice.”

“So now you’re quoting Abraham Lincoln?” Aaron huffs, “Never liked history.”

Dina squints, the barest twitch of muscle before her features soften to something familiar once more.

“Then why do you squander so much of the present on matters of the past?”

Aaron looks away as he comes up short of a response.

“I know the ache of loss,” Dina continues, “but dwelling on the changeless will not bring you peace. You have to accept that, no matter what happens, it will not bring her back. You’re young, and have a lot to learn about the ways of the world. You should be out there living your life with your friends. Hiding here to sulk over the past isn’t going to stop the world from coming to you.”

Aaron looks up. A pregnant pause hangs between them.

“You’re not _that_ old either, you know,” he jokes meekly.

Dina’s lips quirk lightly, though she knows that things are far from resolved for Aaron and will be until he chooses to let go of the bad blood on his own. But there is hope to her smile. There is always room for hope, even when facing a monster. She turns her attention to the crate still blocking the helpdesk.

“Come here and help me move this.”

They manage to carry the crate to storage; another room filled with dusty shelves of files and stacks of old books that have seen better days. Aaron pulls back as Dina turns the crate so that it faces the right way up before it lands with a dull thud on the old floorboards, narrowly avoiding Aaron’s toes being crushed.

“Either that box defies the laws of physics, or you’re secretly a wrestler outside of work,” Aaron jokes, stepping back from the crate and wiping his brow, “What’s in it anyway?”

Dina looks down at the seemingly normal, prosaic wooden structure between them, a glimmer of wonder and something close to fear in her eyes. “Something mysterious,” she says in a low voice, pausing as her eyes meet Aaron’s. “And dangerous.”

“Quit messing with me. It’s just more books. Like encyclopaedias and dictionaries, right _?_ ”

Dina smirks before picking up a crowbar nearby, handing it to him. “See for yourself.”

Aaron takes it and doesn’t need telling twice, prying open the crate’s top as eagerly as if he were tearing the wrapping paper off a present. The wood cracks under the pressure as the nails give and the lid slides to the floor, revealing the crate’s mysterious contents. Aaron’s brow creases.

“It really is just books…” He picks up one of many leather-bound novels from the crate, reading the title ‘ _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’_ with a bemused look.

Dina grins and starts to unpack. “Not _just books._ These are first edition prints.” She looks fondly at another book titled _‘A Study in Scarlet’_.

“Never knew you were a fan of Conan Doyle,” Aaron says, placing his book down carefully now that he knows it’s probably worth a few hundred dollars at least. Dina’s smile withers.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Aaron looks between Dina and the mass of fiction they are unloading quizzically.

“This is a medical library…”

“Nice deduction,” Dina jests with a smirk, continuing to stack the books carefully beside the crate.

“So…” Aaron trails off as he looks around the interior of the claustrophobic storage room. He hadn’t noticed on any other occasion that the shelves actually _are_ the walls, and every shelf is filled to breaking-point with some kind of leather-bound book or another, arranged like they were stacked by a Tetris-pro.

“Why do you have so much fiction?”

Dina admires her collection with a warm smile. “Well, the life of a librarian isn’t exactly awe-inspiring. And despite my choice of occupation I am not particularly well-versed in medical science. I prefer the realm of fantasy, drama and adventure.” She glides gentle fingers across the cover of the book in her hands, tracing the embossed title nostalgically.

“Behind these leather screens is a doorway. When I read Sherlock Holmes, I become a doctor who is a glutton for the dangerous and the mysterious. I read Jane Eyre and I become a young lady who has overcome great hardships by staying true to herself. There are so many cultures, so many stories… Mankind’s ability to dream is one of life’s true miracles.” She places the book with the others and claps her hands on her lap.

“In short; I like it.”

 A lengthy silence passes between them before Aaron notices that the small pile of books he had started by the side of the crate has grown into a tower. He clears his throat.

“I should probably put these in the archive.”

“You should probably go home,” Dina insists, looking at her watch as it closes in on 10pm, “Don’t you have an assignment due tomorrow?”

“Probably,” Aaron mutters, uncaring, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and making for the doorway. Dina follows him to the library entrance, unlocking the door and holding it open for him.

“Don’t neglect the important things in your life for the sake of a memory, Aaron,” she says lowly.  “That’s not what she would have wanted.”

Aaron doesn’t answer as he leaves.

Frowning, Dina closes the doors and locks up before returning to the storage room. After hastily emptying the crate of its remaining contents she reaches for the crowbar and teases it into the edge of the crate’s base. Like the lid of a yogurt carton she peels it back with ease to reveal a secret compartment underneath. The same glimmer of fear and awe returns in her eyes as she looks at the real item of value lying on a bed of protective sigils that had been painted onto the wood of the crate in blood-red.

“A glutton for the dangerous, indeed,” she mutters to herself, frowning deeply as something besides the mysterious object sends a chill down her spine.

There is a presence in the library; something terrible and terrifyingly familiar. In a panic not becoming of her Dina turns, lifts one of the floorboards with far too much ease and buries the object beneath the dust and cobwebs there along with a splintered plank from the crate. She restores the floorboard before stacking the books on top of it to weight it down. Confident that it is hidden, she leaves the storage room, taking impossibly light steps down the hallway. As she enters the library gallery she lifts her arm in a defensive stance, eyes scanning the dark rows of bookshelves either side of her. The lights seem dimmer, and every now and then they flicker, on the verge of diminishing entirely.

The air changes suddenly, growing heavier, and Dina turns with lightening quick speed to block the polished mirror of an angel blade with her own.

“Burying yourself in the dirt for so long has made you weak and predictable, sister dear,” the owner of the blade mocks as he pushes her back against a pillar and pins her with his forearm.

“The dirt is paradise compared to the massacre we made of Heaven, Azrael,” Dina growls through the crushing force on her windpipe. She tries to fight back, but he is far stronger and he twists her arm painfully until she is forced to drop her weapon, completely unarmed but for her words. “Please. I have no desire to rekindle old feuds.”

“You even speak like them,” Azrael says, curling his lip in disdain. “It’s disgusting, mingling with these… _savages._ ”

“These savages are no less saintly than we are,” Dina bites. Azrael’s eyes study her; two dark pools tapered like a Lynx’s above a long, thin nose, cast into a pale slender face and framed by short, sleek black hair. His vessel is deceptively thin and wiry beneath an expensive-looking suit and an even more expensive-looking black coat.

“That depends on the saint,” Azrael says as he cranes his neck, “Raphael was a visionary, but he was no god.  And neither was _he_ \- the one you admired so much.” He narrows his eyes, the curve of thin lips revealing the barest glimpse of a white predatory smile beneath.

“The one with the blood on his hands.” He moves in closer, smelling the scent of fear permeating from his weaker sibling and filling his lungs with breath they don’t need. “I remember that day. I was _there_. I remember what your renegade band of dirt-worshipers did — when he gave that order. Word has it he’s less saintly than _you,_ now.”

“Why have you come?” Dina groans.

“You know why, sister dear,” Azrael purrs, long spidery fingers tightening around the blade’s handle as he pierces the exposed skin of Dina’s neck.

“It’s not here.”

“But of course it is. Someone as curious as you wouldn’t pass on the opportunity to study a thing like that.”

“I said _it’s not here_ ,” Dina says, gritting her teeth as the blade’s tip slices a small, thin line of fresh blood and a white light begins to bleed through.

“Then _where_ is it?” Azrael demands with a snarl.

“Nowhere you know. You have no use of it. Who are you working for this time?”

Azrael grins dangerously.

“No one you know.”

He lowers the blade and steps back, freeing Dina from his grasp. She coughs and splutters as she tilts forward, but it’s barely a second of freedom before Azrael lifts his free hand and Dina’s weary frame is pulled back against the pillar. He raises his hand higher and Dina slides up the pillar until her feet are no longer touching the library floor.

“Oh how far the apple has fallen from the tree,” Azrael chides. “There’s barely anything left of you, is there?” Dina doesn’t respond - hardly any strength left to tilt her head and face her enemy eye-to-eye.

“This is what happens when you play in the dirt, sister dear. Sooner or later the worms find you. And when they do, they crawl their way into your core and hollow you out.”

“We all made choices, Azrael,” Dina chokes, trying desperately to hold her fierce gaze through the bone-crushing pain, “I chose freedom. And I choose to be one of them —”

“But _you’re not_ ,” Azrael shouts, voice rattling the glass panes of the library. His eyes are two hot coals, scorching with their scrutiny.

“You’re not human. You’re an _imitation_. I could fold you in half, squeeze you between the books on one of those shelves and no one would notice. Just another work of fiction.” He steps forward until he’s in Dina’s space once more.

“Now, let’s try this again shall we? Where is it?”

Dina narrows her eyes with contempt.

“I’ve made my choice.”

And as quickly as it had appeared, the fire in Azrael’s eyes freezes to cold indifference. He frowns.

“Clearly...”

* * *

It’s official.

Dean didn’t think it was actually possible for him to lose his appetite over the sight of a corpse; after years of desensitisation and a stint in Hell he wishes he could forget. But it is.

“Wow… Guess that’s what you call ‘extreme yoga’,” he says with a grimace, unable to pry his eyes away from the mangled remains of a body wedged between the shelves of a library bookcase. Sam is silent beside him, his face a picture of horrified disgust when Dean eventually looks his way.

“Any ideas?” Dean asks offhandedly.

“Aside from whoever or whatever did this has some serious issues? None so far,” Sam replies without peeling his eyes from the scene. They still haven’t had a clear look at the body - only the  disfigured limbs dangling between the rows of heavy medical books either side as a couple of attentive coroners obstruct their view. The space on the shelf is so compact it couldn’t be more than one square foot.

 “Well, whatever it is, you gotta admit those are some mad packing skills,” Dean says, smirking at his own bad joke and waiting eagerly for Sam’s reaction. Sam gives him a disapproving look of _‘too soon’_ and _‘not funny Dean’_ before his attention is elsewhere over Dean’s shoulder.

“If the two of you are here, then this has bad news written all over it,” Sheriff Jody Mills groans as she approaches, a take-away coffee in hand. She looks tired, and none too happy at seeing them.

“Sheriff Mills,” Sam greets her with a friendly smile, albeit a little awkward, “We were just in the neighbourhood. I, uh, thought you were stationed back in Sioux Falls?”

“I was. But after the blind-date from Hell I decided to pack-up, ink-up and hex-up,” Jody says, hooking a finger under the chain around her neck and tugging to reveal a hex bag tied at the end. She tucks it back under her uniform.

“Wasn’t much trouble moving, though I guess you can’t always avoid running into the past. Right?” She smiles tightly and looks between the two brothers, a mixture of feelings harboured for their unexpected reunion. Sam clears his throat and Dean attempts a sincere smile but fails.

“So, uh, what’s the story on the ‘Atlas of Human Anatomy’ over there?” Dean asks awkwardly.

“Cleaners found them. We need to run some tests first, but it looks like this was the librarian. Went by the name of Dina Andersen,” Jody says, getting an eye-full of the corpse as two coroners begin to carefully pull it from the bookcase and into a body bag for transportation to the morgue. Dean joins in on the spectacle, feeling his stomach turn the moment they finally get a better look at the remains. That strawberry glazed donut he had for breakfast is about ready for an encore.

“You seeing this?” Sam says under his breath, realisation and fear in his eyes.

Dean stiffens. It’s like a scene from a horror film; the face of the woman a warped mass of blood, flesh and hair, and distinctly eyeless. There are two large black holes in their stead, singed around the edges like they had been _burned_ from the skull. Dean considers that a hallmark if there ever was one.

“What about big brother outside?” he asks as the gruesome handiwork disappears in a black body bag. “The cameras pick anything up?”

“We checked,” Jody says, sipping her coffee and grimacing at the taste before deciding to neglect it. “Dina was last seen with a med student we identified as Aaron Sheppard. He left a little after ten, but no one else came in or out until this morning. I sent a team over to Dina’s apartment just to be sure and the neighbours confirmed she didn’t return home last night. Looks like someone turned the place inside out looking for something. As to _what_ , I’m stumped. Similar scene to this one, actually.”

The boys manage to pry their eyes away from the body and notice that many of the bookcases have been raided; their contents sprawled across the floor in a carpet of broken binders and torn pages. Among the evidence carefully labelled with numbered cards is an angel blade, cleaner than Dean’s plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s obvious that this wasn’t the murder weapon, but most likely belonged to their unfortunate and altogether mysterious librarian.

“We’ll need that autopsy report,” Sam says to Jody, handing her a card with his number. She takes it and looks between the two of them anxiously.

“I knew this was bad news,” she says, dismal. “It’s not like I don’t deserve it, though. Ever since things got weird — and then Bobby...” She swallows a lump in her throat. “Still, I thought I got out, you know? Was back to normal cases? Then you boys showed up and I thought hell — must be fate. I guess normal was never an option.”

“Normal’s worse. You can’t just gank the scumbag and burn the body without being labelled a psychopath,” Dean quips with a straight face, but that at least gains a smile - however small - from Jody.

“We’re sorry that you got dragged into all of this, uh, again,” Sam says, “A lot of people get hurt when they get involved with us. Sort of the downside to the job.”

“Is there an upside? Apart from saving the world?” Jody jeers, her smile widening a little. Sam rubs his neck as he smiles back, and Dean stands silently, watching the conversation with a knowing look in his amused eyes.

“I’ll call you soon as something comes up,” Jody adds, placing the card in her pocket. “Bad news or not… I’m happy to see you boys. Really, I am.”

“Yeah. Me —uh, _we_ are too,” Sam says before Jody leaves them to their investigation. Dean nods to himself, mulling over the recent spectacle.

“That was _smooth_ , Romeo,” he says with a shit-eating grin. Sam looks at him incredulously.

“…What?”

“Oh nothing, nothing… Just your thing for the more mature ladies is adorable.” Sam blushes, shakes his head a little _too_ eagerly.

“Dean— _no._ It’s not—I don’t —”

“It’s okay, Sam. Ain’t nothing wrong with a _fine wine_.” Dean’s grin widens and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam takes a brief moment of silence to regain control of his twitching lips, apparently finding it incredibly difficult to keep a straight face as he says, “Depends if you prefer it poured or displayed in a museum.”

Dean’s mouth flaps but no sound escapes. It’s one of many awkward moments of late where his wise-crack memory bank decides to short-circuit on him, and incidentally whenever Sam raises the subject of Dean’s love life (or lack of). He purses his lips, clears his throat and stuffs his hands into his pockets awkwardly, directing his attention to the crime scene again and quickly changing the subject.

“Uh, so… we looking at angel-action here?” Dean frowns deeply at how that really doesn’t sound like a diversion at all. Sam looks around at the scene in question.

“Sure seems like it. Must’ve been a disagreement, or maybe angels from different clubs deciding to pick a fight?”

“Great. Another rendition of _Westside Story_ ,” Dean says meekly. “Still doesn’t explain why we got an angel folded like a pizza box. Why didn’t this one just go _boom_ like the others?”

“No idea,” Sam says, face contorted with concentration as he tries to make sense of the evidence around him. “I wanna know what they were looking for.” He walks over to the perimeter of mass carnage that was the cardiovascular texts section of the library, now a carpet of torn paper and splintered wood, and picks up one of the few remaining books in decent condition, flipping through the pages for answers. He finds none.

“I just don’t get it,” Sam says as he closes the textbook in one giant hand, “What’s an angel hoping to find in a medical library?”

“A diagram of the heart, maybe?” Dean quips, but Sam isn’t listening. He’s too busy looking from the cover of the book still in his hand to the others scattered around him. He notes the books that have been left untouched on other shelves, an idea slowly forming behind those pensive brows of his.

“Leather,” Sam mutters, looking up at Dean like he’s found the meaning of life in a cardiology textbook. Dean blinks, oblivious.

“…So?”

“So,” Sam moves towards the unscathed shelves of paper-backs, pointing excitably, “Why only these books and not the rest? Unless… unless they’re not just looking for any kind of book. Maybe a book with a _leather cover_?”

“That’s a stretch, Sam,” Dean says, frowning, “For all we know, whoever ransacked the place could’ve found what they came for. And it don’t exactly narrow things down all that much. So it might be a book — a book about _what,_ exactly?”

Sam purses his lips and tosses the textbook aside.

“Look, man,” Dean adds, trying to stay positive despite their dead-end. “Let’s not get defeatist over this, okay? We’ve been on the case for barely an hour. I mean, it’s a stroke of luck we were even passing through the area, if you wanna call it that. We might not know what’s got the halo academy’s panties in a twist, but what we _do_ know is there’s more to this than smoking craters. I say we check out the neighbourhood, see if we can find any other signs of angels at play and wait for Jody to fill us in on Elastigirl’s autopsy.”

Sam takes one final look at the mass grave of academic literature before giving in with a sigh. “Sure. Okay,” he says with a weak nod.

As they walk towards the barricade of police tape and curious bystanders beyond it, something catches Sam’s eye, and he stops. There is a mark on one of the pillars, about five feet or so up. It’s not a scratch or a flaw in the design - more intentional from what Sam can gather. He makes a detour from Dean’s side to get a better look. Dean watches him, puzzled.

“Sam?”

On closer inspection Sam discovers that the mysterious mark appears to be words in some sort of foreign hand, scorched into the concrete of the pillar. He traces it with his fingers, finding it to be caked in a black powdery residue.

“This was burned on… recently,” he murmurs to no one in particular, rubbing the black powder between his finger and thumb.

Dean approaches to see what’s so interesting. “The hell does _that_ say?” he asks, squinting at the pillar.

Sam pulls out his phone from his suit jacket and takes a picture of the scorch mark for reference. “I’m not sure. But I’m gonna find out.”

* * *

  
The counsellor’s office is too warm. Aaron can hear the endless ticking of a clock, coaxing his migraine into a constant beat in his skull until he can’t tell the two apart. There is a nauseating smell of peppermint tea, and he slouches further in his seat, allowing the weathered leather to swallow him whole. Over by the door a cold light from a small aquarium beckons him, and he watches the winding course of a fish, envious of its blissful ignorance.

“Aaron?” the counsellor says in that overly calm tone of voice she always uses. Aaron blinks as the fish repeats the same route around the plastic coral-reef for the 20th time since he sat down. The counsellor says his name again, more insistent this time.

“Do you want to tell me how things are outside of college?”

 Aaron doesn’t reply, his tepid gaze bound to the aquarium.

“Aaron…” The counsellor leans forward, folding her hands on her lap, “… I’m here to listen.” Aaron watches as another, larger fish begins to bully his oblivious finned-friend.

“Did you know that freshwater angelfish usually breed for life?” he says suddenly, “When a mate dies, the remaining angelfish has no interest in breeding.” The larger fish in the aquarium continues to torment the smaller one when Aaron finally turns to face the counsellor.

“They’re also highly aggressive and territorial,” he adds, avoiding eye contact by concentrating on the modest diamond band on the counsellor’s ring finger.

“What’s troubling you, Aaron?”

“Didn’t take you long to jump on the engagement bandwagon,” Aaron says with a red-rimmed, questioning glare as he looks her in the eye. “Three months is a little soon, don’t you think?”

“We’re not here to talk about me.”

Aaron snorts.

“Why not? You’re what — pushing thirty-five at least, right? And obviously desperate to avoid winding up alone. Apparently I’m not the only one here who needs counselling.”

“Attachments are an important part of adult life,” the counsellor says softly. Aaron shakes his head with a mocking chuckle.

“They’re also the problem.”

“They only become the problem when you make them one.”

“Did you read that in one of your bullshit textbooks?”

“Aaron,” the counsellor sighs as she adjusts the ring on her finger unconsciously, “I’m not the enemy. These sessions are here to help you.” Aaron’s nails bite into the soft leather arms of the chair.

“It’s not me that needs help, it’s everyone else.”

Outside the counsellor’s office another student sits in waiting, brushing the soft brown bangs from her face and twisting the strap of her bag between her fingers anxiously. The second the door opens, she stands. Aaron walks out, barely glancing her way as he continues down the hall. The girl almost stumbles trying to keep up.

“Aaron —”

“Why are you here, Chelle?” Aaron grumbles, swinging his backpack over one shoulder and slouching further as he strides.

“I heard about what happened to Dina,” Michelle replies solemnly, “Everyone’s in shock. I can’t believe someone would do that to a person.”

“Don’t read the news much then do you?”

“Aaron, wait. Please —” Michelle grabs him by the arm, moves to stand face-to-face as Aaron stops reluctantly.

“I know Dina meant a lot to you — more than the rest of us. But I’m worried about you. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. I haven’t seen you at class for weeks, and since the trial…” She takes a deep breath and squeezes his shoulder lightly. “Aaron, I just want to help.”

“Everyone keeps saying that —”

“Because it’s the _truth_. Please…” The hand on his shoulder squeezes tighter, “… There _are_ people who care. Please don’t shut them out.”

Aaron pulls his arm free.

“Go home, Chelle,” he says lowly, leaving Michelle and her pleading words behind him as the heavens begin to open.

* * *

The remnants of a crime scene investigation are still taped across the library’s entrance. Aaron watches nothing in particular from across the parking lot, hands buried in the pockets of his soaking hoodie. It’s not unusual these days for him to just stand in the rain for hours, thinking he may as well give the old man upstairs a clearer shot for when He decides to piss on his life. There is no avoiding that, after all. Bad things are like the rain; they’re unpredictable, uncontrollable, and stick around like damp long after the downpour. But places like the library and people like Dina… they were a shelter, a place to dry off, to ride it out. That was before the rain finally found the cracks.

_‘Aaron…’_

Aaron blinks out of his reverie, unsure if the voice that just whispered his name was real or a figment of his imagination.

_‘Aaron…’_

He turns, looks around only to find himself alone, apparently the only one crazy enough to stand in a downpour on the border of a library parking lot. Most of CSI on wheels have vacated now, and Aaron decides that it’s probably a good idea that he does the same.

* * *

  
Dean curses under his breath as he wrestles with the motel door handle, two large bags in one hand. Sam looks up from behind his laptop screen when Dean finally manages to open the door.

“What, are you hording food for an imminent nuclear fallout or something?”

Dean huffs. “If I was, I wouldn’t be shopping at a 7 Eleven.” He opens the bag and pulls out a carton of air with a hint of salad, tossing it over to Sam before reaching into the bag again and unwrapping a greasy-looking burrito, eyeing it hungrily. Sam gives him a mortified look.

“You sure about that?”

Dean pauses mid-bite. “What?”

“That toxic waste in a wrapper.”

Dean looks at his burrito, shrugging before taking a grossly overestimated bite out of it.

“Those things will give you cancer,” Sam says as he shakes his head.

“You know what else causes cancer, Sam? _Life_ ,” Dean says with a mouthful of processed meat and beans before forcing it down with a painful swallow. “You manage to get it working yet?”

Sam sighs, carding a hand through his hair. “It’s not great, but we’ve at least got something.”

Dean stoops over Sam’s shoulder to view a low resolution video image of Kevin on the screen, hair tousled and wearing the same clothes Dean had last seen him in when they left the bunker.

“Wow. The camera’s definitely not your friend, kid.”

 _‘Nice to see you too,’_ Kevin says. The picture unexpectedly freezes, and Dean snorts at the glorious mug shot the crappy connection has gifted them.

“Yeah. It does that,” Sam says as he opens the salad carton and most of his meal diffuses into the atmosphere. A couple of seconds later and the video feed starts working again, taking Dean by surprise when Castiel appears beside Kevin, much like when he used to zap into a room as an angel.

 _‘It still amazes me_ — _the marvels of modern communication,’_ Castiel says with genuine curiosity as he leans over Kevin’s shoulder to marvel at the shitty web-cam so close Dean could probably count his nose hairs.

 _‘There’s nothing amazing about Skype,’_ Kevin says with an eye roll.

“Accept when it actually works,” Dean adds.

“Cas, we wanna know what you make of this…” Sam says as he scrolls through a folder of camera-phone images before clicking on the most recent addition, “Sending the image to you now.”

Castiel leans toward the camera again. He squints, looks puzzled but says nothing.

“…Well?” Dean asks, impatient.

 _‘I believe it is ancient Greek,’_ Castiel eventually says.

“Ancient Greek?”

 _‘It is an Indo-European language used in the eastern-Mediterranean region with various dialects predating the birth of Christ_ — _’_

“Okay, enough with the linguistic lectures, Cas. We know what ancient Greek is. You wanna tell us _what it says_?”

 _‘Agra,’_ Castiel replies with a slight tilt of the head, _‘I believe loosely translated it means_ the chase. _’_

Dean snorts. “You’re not wrong there.”

Sam abandons his salad and leans in closer. “Wait… Agra’s also _a place_ , right? In India?”

 _‘A city on the banks of the river Yamuna, yes. The Taj Mahal is located there_ — _fascinating architecture.’_

“Sounds like a lovely honey-moon location,” Dean butts in irritably, “But any ideas as to why someone would wanna brand this on a pillar in a medical library besides leading us on a freaking chase blindfolded?”

“Cas…Do you know if the angels could be looking for something? Like some sort of weapon? Say… a _book_?”

Castiel squints further, if that were possible, at Sam’s question.

 _‘I’m afraid that does not narrow things down all that much. There are hundreds of holy weapons in existence_ — _a substantial number of them books. I know of some in Heaven’s weapons vault, but there are still many unaccounted for,_ _lost or hidden over the centuries. If the angels are searching for one of these, as you believe them to be, then I’m afraid it will be impossible to know which one without further information.’_

“Well, ain’t that just peachy,” Dean says sarcastically before taking another greasy bite out of his burrito. Sam slumps back in his chair, bowing his head as they come across yet another dead-end.

“So you don’t know if one of these holy weapons is hidden somewhere in Agra?” Sam asks, hopeful. Castiel shakes his head.

_‘Unfortunately no, but… it is plausible.’_

Dean can see that the mystery surrounding the case has Sam on edge for some reason, more than usual, and it bothers him enough to put the burrito down. This wasn’t even on their agenda. It was simply coincidence that they stopped for gas in Aurora and heard the call through police radio. If they hadn’t, it’d be warm apple pie and a cold beer in front of the box instead of dirty convenience store tripe and an angel-induced migraine. Dean would have been okay with that.

Sam’s phone buzzes in his suit pocket and he checks the caller ID before answering, his face brightening the moment he recognises the voice on the other end. “Jody?” He gets up to take the conversation somewhere he can’t see the knowing grin of his dumb brother. When Dean glances at the laptop screen again Kevin has gone too, leaving only Castiel on the video feed.

“So, uh,” Dean mumbles, clearing his throat and picking at his finger nails, “What’s with the cleaning lady getup?” Castiel looks at his bright pink rubber-gloved hands and adjusts the front of a spotted white apron gingerly.

 _‘Oh, this? I decided to go through some of the library’s contents still in boxes and improve the cataloguing system,’_ he says shyly. ‘ _The one you have is good, but there is scope for improvement.’_

“Okay, sounds uh… boring. But most of that you can do _from a chair_ , right?”

Castiel sighs. _‘Dean —’_

“Cas, we’ve talked about this — that foot ain’t gonna mend any quicker if you won’t let it. And I know it sucks sitting on your ass all day, but what about TV? I thought you liked it.”

Castiel looks away, distant and disinterested. _‘It loses its charm after a while…’_

If there is one thing Dean longs for in this moment, besides the beer and pie, it’s to see Castiel smile again. There really isn’t anything else that can compare, and quite frankly it’s something of a rarity when it really shouldn’t be. If he could just see Castiel smile, every day until he finally gives up the ghost, then Dean would die a happy man. Those are the things - those little, extraordinary things that make life worth living. And they are the things worth dying for. If only he could make Castiel see that too.

But before Dean can say anything remotely comforting to his friend he hears Sam hanging up and making his way back. Somehow timing has never been their forte.

“Look, we’ll talk when I get back,” Dean says instead, ending the video conversation unsatisfied and further frustrated at the distance separating them.

“So get this,” Sam says with renewed spirit, “That was Jody. Says the coroner found the body’s insides totally vaporised, and a puncture wound in the abdomen…” He frowns when Dean doesn’t react, “… You okay?”

Dean flinches, finally looks up at Sam as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Uh, yeah…  So definitely an angel then?”

“Looks like it,” Sam confirms, still studying his brother with suspicion, “Jody did some digging into the vic’s history, and guess what? Dina Andersen died over thirty years ago. She was _still-born_. Name, birth certificate, social security number — all of it stolen or fabricated. What’s more, her description matches Meryl Jacobs who went missing about five years ago in Chicago. Looks to me like this angel, whoever she is, was dead set on blending in.”

“Or she was running from something,” Dean adds.

“And it finally caught up with her.”

Dean rubs his eyes and glances at his wrist watch, sighing. “Yeah… Well, right now that drive’s catching up with me and I’m running on fumes. Think I’m gonna call it a night. Let’s say we pick this up first thing tomorrow and check out the vic’s apartment, see if we can find anything on why the angel mafia were so hot on bumping her off. You?”

“No, think I’ll stay up and look into this Agra thing,” Sam says, taking his seat in front of his laptop again.

“Right. Well, don’t overdo it,” Dean says, slapping Sam on the back before standing and removing his tie as he makes for the nearest bed. “You’re cranky when you don’t get your beauty sleep.”

Sam smirks to himself. “Jerk.”

But Dean is already face-planting the motel pillows and too far-gone to hear him.

* * *

  
_‘Aaron…’_

Aaron wakes in the middle of the night alone in his room, sweating and gasping for breath. Another nightmare it seems, hijacking his mind when exhaustion finally caught up with him. Even in his wake he can still see the rain tearing away the sodden road of broken glass, the twisted car frame through the flicker of headlights, the mangled body trapped within; the smell of blood so thick it’s more black than red.

So much blood.

Aaron wipes his eyes of the sweat, or tears, he can’t be sure which anymore — possibly both. His laptop screen is still the only light within the room just as it had been before he passed out, open on a blank word document. He doesn’t know why he’s even trying, why it _should_ matter. The future no longer has any colour to it; they’ve all bled out, abandoned him. It’s nothing but black and white now, only with a little less white, like trying to see in the dark.

He blinks tightly, slapping the screen closed and holding his head in his hands. The room is too small.

It’s still raining when he leaves, wandering aimlessly under lonely street lights. There is no destination to his venture, but strangely enough he finds himself standing on the edge of the library parking lot again. The yellow tape is still criss-crossed over the entrance, though there are no lights on and no police cars to be seen.

_‘Aaron…’_

That voice again… a _woman’s voice,_ soft, sympathetic. It feels close somehow, even though he’s completely alone, and Aaron doesn’t know why but he feels some sort of force pulling his thoughts towards the library, overcome with a sudden _need_ to be there.

At the rear of the building there is a door that Aaron manages to break into, navigating down the labyrinth of dark hallways until he reaches the storage room. It’s locked too, but it doesn’t take much effort to finally open the door and when he does the force calling to him is like an electrical storm on his senses. A presence hangs there, permeating through the cracks in the floorboards. His eyes fall on the stack of leather books he and Dina had unpacked the night before. Something is here.

Aaron pushes the books aside and cautiously brings his hand to the loose floorboard beneath before prying it open. He removes the splintered fragment of the crate and there under the floor of the library storage room is the source of that maddening energy: a black leather book, worn and weathered but for the brilliant gold edging on the paper and emboss on the cover, sealed tight by a bronze clasp in the shape of a hand. The markings on the cover look a lot like Greek, but he doesn’t know what they mean. The mystery only adds to his peaking curiosity as he opens the clasp, wondering what content had driven a person to hide it from sight.

The pages are blank.

Aaron’s face creases with confusion as he flips through the pages again and again only to find them completely empty, without a single mark. It’s certainly a mystery, if not slightly disappointing. But Aaron can’t chase away that strange energy, that alluring presence he feels from the curious book in his hands, and without thinking he tucks it under his coat just as the signs of a security guard’s flashlight approaching from down the hall begin to bleed through the crease beneath the door.

* * *

Jody wasn’t wrong about the state of the apartment. Every shelf and drawer is ripped apart or upturned; their contents scattered across the floor, a minefield of torn paper, splintered wood and broken glass. And, once again, Sam notices that most of the casualties are leather-bound books.

“I don’t know about you, Sam, but I can’t see any clues on holy WMDs lying about,” Dean says wryly as he navigates the flood of debris, “Except for the one that went off in here.” He bends down to pick up one of the paper-back books on the floor, smiling nostalgically at the cover. “What a book-worm.”

"Some people like it,” Sam counters, “You know, not everyone spends their free time watching Japanese cartoon porn or counting how many Twinkies they can fit in their mouth.”

Dean glowers. “Not all of it is porn… pervert.” He flips through the book, looking around at the other literature scattered on the floor amongst a Sherlock Holmes paperweight and other memorabilia.

“Looks like someone was a fan of old Sherly,” he says pointedly. Sam walks over, picking up another one of the detective novels, the gears in his head turning as the pieces of the puzzle begin to slot into place.

“Wait a minute…”

“Huh?”

Sam flips through the book until he finds what he’s looking for. “It’s a code.”

Dean squints. “What is?”

 “Agra,” Sam says, jabbing a finger on the open page as if the gesture might actually drill his epiphany into Dean’s consciousness. It doesn’t.

“… Sorry, you lost me.”

“Agra — you know? The city in India?”

“Yeah, we’ve established that. Get to the part where you explain how it’s, what… _code?_ Code for _what_?”

“I think Dina was trying to leave a message,” Sam says as he points to the chapter title in the book. “Agra’s a place, like an _actual_ place, we know that. But it’s also mentioned in one of the Sherlock Holmes stories: _The Sign of Four._ ” He turns the book to face Dean. “In the story there’s a treasure that’s supposed to be hidden in Agra, right? Only, it’s not. During the boat chase, the thief throws the treasure overboard. Maybe Dina left the name _Agra_ to confuse her killer— throw them off _the chase_? It could be just like the story…”

The light bulb finally clicks on above Dean’s head as he slowly says, “So, angel with clipped wings hauls ass half way across the globe —”

“— And no treasure,” Sam resolves, closing the book in his hand with a triumphant clap.

“Man…” Dean says with a wry grin, “…I’d be pissed. But if this, uh, weapon-book or whatever isn’t in India, then where is it?”

“I think it’s still here, in Aurora. And wherever it is, there’ll be another clue.”

“Like another Sherlock Holmes reference?”

Sam smiles, patting Dean on the back, “Or something more obvious.”

“Right…” Dean says slowly, brow creasing. “Where are we going?”

“The library,” Sam calls as he heads towards the door, promise and vigour restored to his stride.

* * *

  
“It’s… empty.”

Sam and Dean loom over the gaping hole in the library’s storage room floor. The clues had led them to this spot: beside a stack of leather-bound Sherlock Holmes novels in the craziest repository of fiction Dean has ever seen. But, alas… Yet another stalemate in a stale investigation.

“Huh, just like in the book,” Dean says, huffing at the irony of their situation.

“I don’t get it…” Sam trails off, brushing the hair from his puzzled face, “It should be here.”

“Well, _Sherlock_ , looks like someone else beat us to it.” Dean bends down to pick up the piece of wood covered in red markings, “But you weren’t wrong about the weapon theory —these are protective sigils. Whatever they were hiding, it was some heavy-duty stuff.”

“And Dina was trying to keep it from someone,” Sam adds, biting his lower lip in concentration. He looks to the crate hidden in the shadows of the overly-cramped shelving in the room and, slouching, makes his way over. The delivery’s footprint is slapped across the lid in stamps and labels, and the bottom of the crate has been torn apart. Sam figures this is most likely the source of the painted wood in Dean’s hands, and more importantly where their vanishing object was stowed once.

“Y’know, the longer we spend on this scavenger hunt the more it reminds me of _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_ ,” Dean says with a shrug, “My bet’s the ugly got here before we did.”

The iconic three-way stand-off comes to mind as Sam continues to stare at the empty space where something was once hidden; a treasure of sorts, buried in a graveyard of fiction and trapped between opposing sides with their own agendas. Weeks following a trail of exploding angels and still they are no closer to finding any answers, however _this_ has Sam guessing. There is clearly a war going on here. But the question is: what exactly does this mysterious vanishing “treasure” do? Sam doesn’t want to wait to find out.

“If the angels are fighting over this then it’s something big, Dean,” Sam urges, “And we’ve got to find it.”

* * *

  
_“Ἀνάγκη…”_

Aaron sits beneath a tree, studying the ancient letters cast into the mysterious black book in his hands. They shimmer curiously under the stray rays of the midday sun as it breaches the mantle of leaves overhead, casting a golden reflection across his face. Around him the park is filled with life and the sound of young children at play, completely oblivious to the dark energy that lingers in the shade of a tree or to the young man who wields it. Aaron turns to another open book by his side, scrolling through the lines of text with his index finger, muttering the word again to himself before his gaze returns to the golden letters once more.

“Ananke?” A bemused look falls upon his face as he opens the black book, not expecting to find something written on the first page in very fine golden strokes, barely noticeable if it were not for the light of day. He must have missed them the previous night, and oddly enough the words are in English.

“ _If willingly thy thread repeal, a mortal’s fate thy hand shall seal..._ ” he reads aloud, no less confused than before. A further line appears beneath it.

“ _State name and means amended, and the bearer’s line shall be ended.”_

He studies the gold print, eyes narrowing pensively before he reaches into his backpack for a ballpoint pen.

“ _Fate_ , huh?”

Aaron clicks the pen and turns to the next blank page. He scratches at the paper furiously, carving streams of words until the page is covered in the black, barbed monstrosity of caged malice. Finished, he leans back to admire his work, not knowing for certain if anything will come of it. Who was he kidding? Magic books that can kill aren’t exactly the kinds of things one finds in the real world after all. But at least it made him feel a little better writing it down. So far an empty book has been more helpful than his counsellor. He sighs.

“What’re doing? There’s no such thing as magic.”

He lifts the cover to close it. But as he does the black scratching on the page lights up like a jack-o-lantern, scorching the blue of his eyes until they burn fierce as liquid gold. Aaron flinches, clamping his eyes shut and scooting away from the book in a panic. As the light dims he opens his eyes again to find the black words on the page have been replaced with gold emboss. He reaches out, tentatively lowering his fingertips to the impressions.

“No such thing as magic…”

* * *

  
**_Three Moosketeers Meats, Aurora, Colorado_ **

A burley man dressed in sanitation gear lumbers between towers of machinery, stopping at a large meat grinder and checking the switch to make sure it’s fully disengaged before commencing with his cleaning procedures for the evening. The factory is quiet, the usual hum of diligence retired for the evening save for the low purr of a melody as the man provides the soundtrack to his work.

He climbs up a step ladder to reach inside of the feeding-dish where the most cleaning is required and hoses it down. Sometime into the rinse the water pressure drops until it’s barely trickling. The man shakes the hose, cursing when the water continues to drip feebly. He rests the hose on the edge of the feeding-dish and climbs down to check the water pressure, but as he does the weight of the nozzle causes it to fall into the grinder. When he returns, believing the problem has been resolved, the nozzle has lodged itself between the blades and no matter how hard he tugs on it the hose won’t budge without first reaching into the machine and easing it out. It’s just about arm’s length if he leans in far enough, resting the hose pipe over one shoulder so he isn’t pressing his weight against it. But as he tries to coax the nozzle out of the blades the machine clicks on, and the drill starts spinning. The man tries to pull back but the grinder has already started to eat the hose as it loops around the drill like a bower constrictor, pulling it tight and subsequently forcing the man into the feeding-dish. With no way out he screams helplessly, legs thrashing at the stainless steel casing as he’s slowly fed into the blades, blood and flesh spraying from the dish and grinder-plate in bright red flecks.

* * *

Sam closes his laptop and rubs his face. He stares at the pages of photocopied texts covering their motel table - obscure symbols and ancient languages flooding his vision and making his eyes dry with fatigue. Dean looks at Sam from one of the beds across the room, legs outstretched and still dressed in his suit shirt and pants.

“Hey, you okay?”

Sam rubs his eyes and yawns. “Yeah, just wish we knew what we were looking for. I’ve got lore on Chinese Taoism, Ancient Egyptian, Sumerian, Christianity… Looks like Cas wasn’t wrong, Dean. Until we know whatever this book we’re looking for can do then it could be anything. But I checked those symbols on that piece of wood we found under the floorboards and they’re definitely Enochian warding sigils. So there’s _that._ What about you?”

“Sadly, no angel bread crumbs,” Dean says, trying not to yawn too as he looks back at his laptop slowly cooking his thighs. “Just the usual stuff like robberies, arson, marijuana… And _‘guy gets eaten by meat grinder.’_ ”

“Ouch.”

Dean scrolls down the page out of curiosity, his interest peaking enough to fight off the urge to take a nap. “Hey, get this — _Earl Shaw, a cleaner at the Three Moosketeers Meat -packing factory, Aurora, was found dead last night having fallen into one of the commercial meat grinders, suffering major chopping injuries to the upper torso and appendages_. Apparently the machine was completely switched off when they found him — possible electrical surge.”

“So you think maybe a ghost, or the place was hexed?”

“Maybe.” Dean scrolls down the article further, and his brows take a hike to his hairline. “Huh…”

“What?”

“Says here Shaw was recently found _not guilty_ of manslaughter. Messy case that lasted over a year. And guess who the victim’s _brother_ was?” Dean turns the laptop around with a blasé expression. “Aaron Sheppard.”

Sam springs out of his seat and takes the laptop to check out the article for himself. “He’s the student on the security footage Jody mentioned.”

“Yup,” Dean nods, “And incidentally the last person we know who spoke with our angelic book-worm. Could be a coincidence, though. Worth a look?”

“We’re not exactly swamped with leads right now,” Sam says crestfallen, “Yeah, I think it’s worth a look.”

* * *

No matter how long he stares at the reflection in the mirror, the image doesn’t change.

It’s like looking at two flaming rings set in amber where liquid aquamarine should be. The eyes that stare back at him aren’t his anymore. They’re alien.

Aaron rinses his face for the third time and finally leaves the bathroom and haunting gaze behind him. The TV is playing the recent headlines when he walks through the student dorm’s communal space where a number of his housemates are eating their staple of stale cereal and burnt toast for breakfast. The instant Earl Shaw’s picture appears he freezes, blood running cold as the anchor recites the gruesome particulars of the story. He turns on his heel and rushes back to his room, ignoring his housemates’ peculiar looks.

 _It can’t be coincidence_ , he thinks in a panic as he digs through the contents of his backpack for the black book, too unhinged to open it delicately when he finally finds it. The page he had written the day before is still there, and it matches the horror story on the news word for word. He claps the book shut.

“Fate…” he murmurs as he stares at the cover, at the sheer immeasurable _power_ in his hands. At _justice served._ And _he_ wields it.

Aaron takes a shallow breath, barely believing his fortune.  He returns the book to its place between the medical texts in his backpack and throws it over one shoulder before leaving the dorm.

  
It’s lunchtime when he sees them: two model-types dressed like the MIB. He’s barely finished his sandwich before they reach the centre of the university’s courtyard, stopping close enough to block the midday sun with their height alone.

“Aaron Sheppard?” the tallest one asks him, brushing a shoulder-length mane of hair from his face that would make the balding shareholders of L’Oreal weep with jealousy.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Aaron says, squinting suspiciously as he takes a bite from his sandwich.

“I’m agent Holmes and this is agent Hamish,” the tallest one continues. Both men show their credentials - obviously fake FBI badges, Aaron gathers, from one glance.

“Those really your names?” Aaron says through a condescending smirk. “You two must’ve had a rough childhood.” He takes another bite out of his sandwich as the agents tuck their badges into their suit pockets.

“We’d like to talk to you about Dina Andersen.”

“I’ve already given the police a statement.”

“We’re not the police,” the shorter one says - possibly older but lacking on the people-skills front by the way he hangs behind the other. They most definitely are not police or FBI, Aaron is confident in his reasoning, but they _are_ here for something more than a rerun of what happened that night before Dina was murdered. Aaron discards his sandwich.

“What do you want to know?”

“It says in your statement that you knew Dina as a friend, and that you spent a lot of time in the library?”

“Yeah, I liked to help out where I could. Dina understood me, you know? She _listened_. It was nice to have someone who was genuine and wanted to listen, not because it’s their job to.”

The shorter agent hides a sympathetic smile and clears his throat, “And you helped her unload a crate delivered that night?”

“Sure. Just a bunch of books. Why?”

“Did you happen to notice if she kept any _unusual books_ in her possession?” the taller agent asks.

“That’s a pretty vague question. You do know she worked in _a library_ , right?”

“He means anything with strange markings,” the shorter agent says.

“Maybe in an ancient language?” the taller agent adds.

Aaron smirks. “You basically just described most of the books on campus.”

The shorter agent glares at him icily, and Aaron can’t shake the feeling that this man is a lot older than he looks. “Nice eyes,” the agent says, insincere, “They real?”

“Contacts,” Aaron says flatly, glaring back. The agent doesn’t flinch. “Look, I don’t know anything about books with weird markings, but Dina kept a lot of old stuff. She liked old stories, so who knows? Maybe she had, like, a dozen copies of the Bible or something?” He grabs his bag and a shiny red apple that is the remainder of his lunch as he stands. “Will that be all, _agents?_ ”

“Not so fast there _Anakin_ — we’ve still got a couple more questions to ask,” the shorter agent says, stepping in front of Aaron to block his escape.

“Look, I told you everything I know —”

“Pretty gruesome thing what happened to Earl Shaw.”

“And so soon after the verdict,” the taller agent adds with a sideways glance. The shorter agent watches Aaron, reading his reaction, but Aaron maintains his composure and the blank expression of a mask on his face.

“It’s an unfortunate accident, but I can’t say it moves me to tears,” Aaron says, nonchalant, “I see it as karma. How ill deeds lead to ill fates? Mr Shaw just happened to have his fair share of both.”

The taller agent frowns. “I read he wasn’t guilty.” For a fleeting second Aaron’s mask slips, a momentary spark of anger burning behind his eyes and clenching the muscles of his jaw. Then it recedes, and he smiles evasively.

“That’s debateable.”

“Shaw was accused of _manslaughter_. That’s not the same as pre-meditated murder. What happened was an accident.”

Aaron no longer bothers to restrain his resentment as the smile slips from his features. “Really? So I’m supposed to believe he _accidently_ drank himself above the legal limit too? That’s how it works in the real world, right?” He slings his bag over his shoulder. “Now, if you’re done I’ve got a lecture to sleep through.”

The taller agent looks rueful of his remark. “Aaron —”

“Here,” Aaron says to the shorter agent as he tosses him the apple, “You look like you could use the vitamins.” He leaves for the nearest building with no intention of sleeping or sitting through a lecture any time soon.

* * *

  
“That kid’s got a hornet’s nest of problems,” Dean says, scrunching his nose at the apple in his hand before throwing it away.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Sam murmurs, watching Aaron disappear into one of the surrounding buildings. “He’s had a rough time, losing his sister like that…”

“Yeah,” Dean says, the thought of Aaron’s turmoil feeling a little too close to home. “Well, life’s one wet road away from a wreck most of the time. Ain’t nothing you can do about it except keep on driving.”

Sam hums in agreement. “He’s got a lot of anger stowed away there. Not much good ever comes of that.”

“And those weren’t contacts either,” Dean adds.

Sam turns. “Think he’s really human?”

“Can’t tell, but he’s definitely giving off the whole evil Sith Lord vibe,” Dean says as he loosens his tie, “I think it’s time to ditch the monkey suits and put a tail on golden eyes. Something about that kid is seriously bugging me.”

* * *

  
Aaron stands beside the window of a second-floor dorm room, a finger teasing the blinds apart. It’s night outside, but dark enough in the room for him to see the two agents from earlier that afternoon sitting in a black Chevy Impala across the street.

“They still there?” Michelle asks from her desk, sighing when Aaron doesn’t answer her or bother to peel his eyes away from the window.

“Why would someone be following you?”

“ _That_ is the question,” Aaron mutters as he narrows his eyes at the black car beneath the street lamp, patiently waiting. He knows _exactly_ why, though his pursuers don’t appear to be as sure. If they were, Aaron would have expected them to be more direct in their pursuit, not spying from the shadows. It’s likely that the two men don’t yet know what it is they are up against. And Aaron intends to keep it that way. He lets the blinds snap shut and leans against the wall by Michelle’s desk.

“They’re definitely not FBI or the cops,” he says.

“What about CIA?”

Aaron scowls in ridicule. “Why pose as feds? Come on, Chelle. _Think_ before you open your mouth.” Michelle purses her lips and brushes the bangs from her face.

“The… mafia?”

Aaron rolls his eyes. “Just look them up for me will you?” He pulls out his phone and hands her a picture for reference. She takes it reluctantly.

“I could get into a lot of trouble for this, Aaron.”

“It’s just their names I want. I’m not after their credit card numbers of anything,” Aaron says flippantly. “Can you do that for me?”

Michelle squeezes the phone in her hands and nods meekly.

“Good. I’ll … buy you a coffee sometime to make up for it or something.”

Michelle’s eyes light up at his promise and she quickly gets to work hacking into the federal database. After running a facial recognition program and painstakingly breaching the firewall to get to the good stuff, they finally have something.

“Aaron… You might want to take a look at this.” Michelle’s face is bleached white from the glare of the computer screen as she loads a series of security recordings and classified files. Aaron peers over her shoulder expectantly.

“You’re awesome,” he says with a grin.

“Being the daughter of a cop has its uses.” She clicks on two criminal records containing mug shots and names of each of the fake agents.

“That’s them,” Aaron confirms. “ _Sam Winchester_ and _Dean Winchester_?”

 “Jesus, these guys are dangerous, Aaron,” Michelle breathes, clicking through page after page of felony. “Suddenly the _mafia_ doesn’t sound all that crazy. And they’re supposed to be _dead_ , too.”

 _They will be_ , Aaron muses with a quirk of his lips.

Michelle stops reading and turns suddenly, and it’s not the glare that has her looking pale this time. “What the hell do they want with you?”

“I wouldn’t worry about them anymore,” Aaron says through a tight smile, his eyes like glowing embers. He brushes a stray lock of hair from Michelle’s face, the faintest of contact enough to illicit a surprised murmur from her lips at his unexpected touch. “Fate finds a way of catching those who escape the net.”

* * *

“Ugh… I don’t feel so good…”

Dean wipes the sticky red trickle from his lips and takes dramatic, shallow breaths as he leans forward in the driver seat, cradling his stomach. “I think I’m dying, Sam,” he says in a strained voice.  Spilling his guts on the sidewalk in broad daylight would be a promising spectacle. That is, if it were not for the obscenely loud belch that follows instead. “Okay, false alarm,” he says, stuffing the rest of a jelly donut into his mouth.

“Did you have to eat the whole box?” Sam says with a grimace. Dean continues to chew loudly as he gives Sam the stink-eye.

“What are you my doctor?” He throws the box out of the window and into a conveniently positioned trashcan by the sidewalk, narrowly missing a student on a pushbike. “He still there?”

“Hasn’t budged, not even to take a leak,” Sam says, peering through a pair of binoculars as he watches their fair-haired suspect in the park, sitting alone in the shade of a tree with a medical book as other students mingle in the sun. Dean groans and butts his head against the wheel.

“Dude, it’s been like an hour already. Is this kid actually studying? That seriously what they do at college these days? I thought it was a myth.”

“Well I guess we can strike a line through Aaron Sheppard,” Sam sighs, lowering his binoculars. “Nothing witchy, no weird books in his dorm, no suspicious behaviour… kid seems clean.”

Dean snorts. “ _Too clean_ if you ask me. What kind of college student doesn’t have at least one Mary Jane lying around?”

“Dean, not every student acts like they’re from Animal House.”

“Whatever. I’m game for a beer,” Dean says as he starts the car, smirking to himself. “And maybe a physical from one of the nurses.”

“You’re unbelievable and gross. _Most_ of these girls are twenty-one. That’s practically paedophilia.”

“C’mon, Sam, live a little,” Dean goads, clapping him on the shoulder before resting his arm across the back of the seat as he pulls onto the road. “Let’s see if we can find you ol’ matron.”  
  
  
They stop by one of the local trendy pubs in the area that’s surprisingly not as busy as Dean would have expected for a student town on a late Friday afternoon. He drums his fingers on the worn wood table, eying up the few hot local girls that happen to stroll past him as he waits for Sam to return with their beers. His eyes follow the route of a blonde in almost non-existent shorts until they spot a dark-haired guy in a black suit and tie, drinking alone at the far end of the bar. Dean freezes. He knows he’s probably gawking, but the man looks so alike Castiel it’s downright creepy, and for a second he almost reaches for his phone to check. Okay, so maybe the lips aren’t as large and his hair doesn’t look like a bald eagle made its nest there, but the guy could pass as a good double. _For Christ’s sake he’s even got the tamed-scruff-thing going on!_

The man suddenly glances his way but Dean can’t stop staring. Five years of sporadic encounters with an angel wearing a tax accountant and now that’s all he sees when he looks at a well-tailored suit? It’s so pathetic it’s laughable, though he isn’t denying that the getup is all manner of hot. Dean must look like some sort of creepy waxwork model because the man appears to be suffering from a major case of the creeps, probably unaccustomed to strange men in plaid checking him out, and Dean can’t blame him really. Browsing the other side of the aisle is a thing he’s only started to think about recently and tries to avoid in public places if he can help it - mostly due to results like now, when he forgets to close his mouth, or thinks he’s seeing his friend’s twin meat-suit.

The man stands and slowly backs away from the bar until he’s out of Dean’s line of sight entirely. _What the hell just happened!?_

“You look like someone just gave you a plane-ticket to New Jersey,” Sam jokes as the clink of beer bottles on wood snaps Dean back to reality.

“Where’s the —”

“I didn’t forget,” Sam interrupts, taking a swig of his beer just as a dainty waitress appears. She places a slice of delectable cherry pie in front of Dean who looks like a kid in a candy-store, snatching the fork and assessing whether or not to start with the crust or the end with the most filling. Life’s full of difficult choices. “Come to daddy,” Dean coos.

Sam shakes his head with a grin, deciding to watch the news on one of the flat screen TVs above the bar. That’s when he notices the headline.  
  
 _‘Eric Marshal, a legal member of one of the leading law firms in the country, was found dead in his office this morning after receiving what police suspect to be lethal levels of snake venom. However the dangerous animal in question has not yet been found. Mr Marshal was recently commended for his impressive string of success stories, including the acquittal of Earl Shaw who tragically died two days earlier…’_

Dean stops, fork halfway to his mouth and its crusty contents sliding back onto the plate as Sam forgets his beer.

“Dean —”

“What the hell —” The two brothers look at each other, awestruck. “Tell me I’m not hearing things.”

“This — this isn’t coincidence, Dean,” Sam says as he pulls his phone out and starts dialling. “We need to get to Aurora Police Department. Now.”

Dean pouts, looking between the mouth-watering sweetness in front of him and the insistent Sasquatch pleadingly. Why is it that the universe seems dead-set on keeping him apart from the things he loves? “But… the pie.”

Sam simply rolls his eyes as he makes for the exit, and Dean stands, hastily stuffing half of the desert into his mouth before following.

* * *

  
“Here you go, boys,” Jody says as she hands Sam a bound copy of faxes. “That’s what Denver sent us. It’s got the whole department stumped. Snake bites with no snake sounds like something right up your alley.”

Sam looks through the pages of coroner reports the police had managed to compile so far on Eric Marshal’s death. “Says here the bite marks were all internal?”

“Yup,” Jody nods, “Mouth, throat, stomach — all covered in puncture marks and swollen with venom, the tongue to be more precise. But no snake. I’ve got to tell you boys, this _and_ the meat-grinder? It’s been a whole bunch of weird since that body turned up in the library, and if I’m honest… it’s freaking me out just a little bit.”

“You’re not the only one spooked about this,” Dean says, “We think it’s all linked, and whatever it is that’s causing it… that’s gotta be some dark mojo.” Sam eyes Dean curiously.

Jody squeezes at her shirt where the hex bag lies hidden beneath, stammering in a low voice “Black magic?” like the words are too difficult to say.

“That’s the theory,” Dean says, meeting Sam’s eyes. “Could be a charm but according to Sam here we’re looking for some kind of creepy-ass leather book. My bet is it works like a hex bag, only without the bag.”

“Or… maybe the book _is_ the bag,” Sam adds, the genius Stanford brain having an epiphany yet again. “What if you don’t just read from it — you _add_ to it?” Jody looks at him blankly.

“Come again?”

“You mean like in that anime?” Dean says keenly, gaining a blank look from both Jody and Sam in return. “Never mind…”

“But who’d want to kill Shaw _and_ Marshal?” Jody asks.

“Who do we know in this town that has the most incentive?” Sam presses. Jody purses her lips as it finally makes sense.

“You’re not suggesting… Do you think he’ll stop?”

“Or move onto the jury, you mean?” Sam shrugs. “Right now, given the circumstances and the likelihood a book that can kill might _actually exist?_ I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

Jody leans back against her desk to steady herself. “But how on God’s green Earth do you protect someone from a thing like that?”

“We find it,” Dean says decisively, looking to his brother as a signal that it’s about time they made tracks before they find another body instead.

* * *

  
One final stroke to the page and the black text turns to gold, sealing the fate of yet another human on Aaron’s list. Admittedly it has scope for far more names now that he has the power of a god at his command. There is a sense of responsibility bound to it, a _duty_. That he should use it to quench his thirst for vengeance and little else would be wasteful. What of the countless others such as himself whom the flawed system of justice has failed? Should _he_ abandon them too?

He studies his words carefully on the page as he sits in a darkened corner of the library that’s still in one piece and not closed-off, the black book hidden behind the sleeve of a medical encyclopaedia. There is much to think about now, much to do. His phone buzzes noisily against the table, but there is hardly a soul in the room to disturb. When he answers, it’s Michelle on the other line.

 _‘Aaron?’_ She sounds worried and out of breath, but the bad reception doesn’t help. _‘Aaron, where are you? I’ve been trying to get through to you for nearly half an hour.’_

“The library,” Aaron says with a sigh, “What do you want, Chelle?”

_‘I thought we were meeting up for that coffee, remember?’_

“I’m busy.”

_‘Oh… well, if you’re studying we can do it some other time? Need a study-buddy?’_

“Chelle… what part of _I’m busy_ do I need to translate for you?” Aaron can hear the moment his words slice through her like a blade laced with salt.

_‘So… so that’s how it is then? That’s how you treat your friends? Brush them off when they’re no longer useful?’_

Aaron slides a palm down his face and wishes he had the power to control certain aspects of his life just as easily as he does others. “Chelle —”

_‘No. You don’t need to bother. I get it. I understand perfectly. I know talking has never been your strong suit, Aaron. You don’t say much, at least not to me, but I still get it… that part of you that’s missing. It’s written on your face. I just hope you find it again someday.’_

Michelle hangs up.

Aaron throws the phone on the table and rubs his face with both palms, the arms of his wrist watch distracting him when he realises the time. He looks out of the window whimsically. The sun is just about setting on him it seems, and probably a sign that it’s time he called it quits for the night. That’s when he sees it.

The black Chevy Impala again, parked haphazardly across two parking spaces. But it’s empty.

He panics, turning back the pages of the black book until he finds it - the paragraph of gold with the Winchesters’ names.

“What? That’s not possible…” He looks out of the window again to be sure and it’s definitely the same car, there is no mistaking it. And there is no mistaking the gold emboss on the page either. He packs his things with haste, stuffing the book into his backpack, the legs of the chair screeching against the tiled floor as he stands. The front entrance is a risky escape, but so is the route to the back door if the maze of bookcases and narrow hallways are anything to go by. Who’s to say they won’t be waiting for him at both doors? Aaron makes his choice and opts for the back, snaking his way down an aisle of bookcases, every now and then peering over his shoulder to check he’s not being followed.

He approaches the end of one aisle when he sees the taller Winchester - Sam - stalking down an adjacent one. Aaron backs against the books and waits for the Winchester to pass before sneaking out and down another aisle, only to find Dean at the end, pulling out a gun on reflex and pointing it.

“Show’s over, kid,” Dean warns him, nodding to Sam over Aaron’s shoulder. The taller Winchester stands at the other end of the aisle without a weapon in hand, approaching with caution and raising his hands to prove he means him no harm.

“Aaron,” Sam says calmly, “It’s time to hand it over. No one else needs to die over this, okay?”

“Why? So you two _freaks_ can hold up a bank and slaughter everyone, _without guns_ this time?”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“We’re not what you think,” Sam pleads, taking a step closer as Aaron takes two steps back. “Aaron, what you have — it’s dangerous, and what you’re doing is wrong. You can end this, right now, and no one gets hurt. All we’re asking is you hand it over. That’s all. Just let it go and walk away.”

Aaron hears the click of Dean arming his gun behind him, just for emphasis. “I’d listen if I were you.”

“What are you?”Aaron says, panic beginning to show on his face now. “Some sort of — of _monsters that can’t die?_ ” The words make Sam flinch.

“You might wanna take a look in the mirror before you start throwing that word around like a cheap insult,” Dean says dangerously. “We’re not the ones with the vendetta.”

Aaron turns his head almost serpent-like to face Dean. “It’s more than personal. Shaw was a drunk and a repeat offender. He never should’ve walked. And Marshal knew that. All he wanted was a list of wins under his belt and the money that came with it. No one cared about what was _lost_. So who’s the real monster in this picture, huh?”

“That doesn’t give you the right to murder them,” Sam says, coaxing Aaron’s full attention and malice again.

“That’s rich, coming from someone like you.”

The momentary lapse in Sam’s focus gives Aaron enough time to swing his bag at the taller Winchester, hitting him over the head. Sam falls against the bookcase, little more than disorientated. Dean aims his gun as Aaron makes tracks down the aisle but Sam stops him, receiving a sore look from Dean in return at the prospect of having to run instead.

Aaron reaches another row of shelves that aren’t as heavily loaded with books and manages to channel the adrenaline flooding his system enough to tip one side over. Dean ducks, shielding his head from the rainfall of literature as Sam catches up with them and gives chase. Aaron is quick though, finally reaching the winding hallways leading him to the rear fire escape when Sam begins to catch up with him. He kicks it open and sprints across the library parking lot towards the road, not even chancing a look over his shoulder. The sidewalk is busy when Aaron kicks his feet over the foliage, knocking into oblivious pedestrians as he bolts down the street as fast as his feet can carry him. He doesn’t know where he’s going or who these Winchesters are. And he certainly has no desire to stick around to become another one of their casualties, but angry people stalking you that can’t die (if they’re really people at all)? That’s something you run the hell away from. He can hear Sam calling after him but Aaron doesn’t stop, at least not until he finally looks over his shoulder, taking his eyes off the path and colliding with a passerby. He hits the paving hard with his shoulder, his backpack sliding onto the side of the road.

“Aaron!?” Michelle rubs her head as she picks herself up from the curb. Aaron stands, sees Sam fast approaching through the crowd of nosey bystanders and with little regard for approaching traffic, makes for his bag before the Winchester can beat him to it. He doesn’t see the red car swerving dangerously towards him, but fortunately his pursuer does. Sam leaps onto the road and pushes Aaron out of the car’s path as it veers off the road, mounting the pavement and crashing into a street lamp.

The sound of panicked shouting and the clap of hurried footsteps is a muffled drone when he regains consciousness on the sidewalk, Sam standing sluggishly beside him and watching the growing horde of bystanders surrounding the smoking wreck in the dying light. The wail of sirens fast approaching becomes clear as his hearing returns, and he pushes himself off the cold paving. He limps towards the wreckage, drawn to it by a sinking feeling in his gut, the visions of a ghost-like past forging new terrors from the mutilated shadows of dusk. As he draws back the curtain of onlookers, his heart plummets.

“Chelle?”

* * *

  
Hospital waiting rooms are something of a personal Hell to Dean; they’re cold, sterile, and their grey walls don’t leave much scope for a silver lining. They all look the same, feel the same, smell the same, and have the same crappy vending machine that takes your money and leaves you broke and candy-less. It’s less a room and more a prison. The only truth to its name is the _waiting_ part.

Dean curses as the machine eats his last dollar, forcing him to go without a distraction from the doleful dialogue taking place in the seating area between his brother and Aaron.

“It’s my fault,” Aaron says tightly, his voice barely above a whisper and palms clenched on his lap.

Sam frowns and bows his head. “What happened was an accident.”

“I wrote his name… the man driving that car,” Aaron says evenly, “They were in the jury… I wrote his name in that book, and I felt nothing. I killed them and I felt nothing. And because of that…” His voice breaks and he swallows back a wave of emotion, pressing the balls of his hands to his eyes. “Chelle’s in there because of me.”

“She’s in there because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time—”

“And that’s why it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brushed her off like that, just like I shouldn’t have let Sera drive that night.”

“Aaron,” Sam says, leaning forward in his chair to play his best ‘voice of reason’ persona, “That wasn’t on you. Your sister made a choice, her own choice, and the outcome of that was just…”

“Down to fate, huh?” Aaron finishes meekly.

“Sometimes…” Sam sighs, choosing his words carefully, “… Sometimes things just happen —bad things, and you can’t change that. Because that’s _not down to you_. It’s the choices you make after that count. And you have a choice _now_ , Aaron.”

Aaron bites his lip and sniffs, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. He reaches into his backpack and takes out the book. He removes the encyclopaedia sleeve disguising it and hands it to Sam.

“What I did,” Aaron says firmly, “It was for the right reasons.”

Dean grunts and folds his arms tightly across his chest, too tired to voice his opinion verbally. Sam takes the book and stands.

“Good intentions don’t always equal good reactions,” he says solemnly. “Trust me, we know.” He says his condolences before reconvening with Dean who is waiting less-than-patiently by the door.

“We good?” Dean says gruffly, already in the hallway and eager to leave.

Sam nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I hope so.”  
  


* * *

  
Aaron closes the door of Michelle’s hospital room behind him quietly and sits. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, his thoughts in tune with the fixed pulse of the life-support monitor as he watches her. He studies the fresh scars, the wires plugged into her arms like puppet strings, the serene and peaceful look on her face that shouldn’t be there after such misfortune. Taking her bruised hand in his he bows his head, and the levee finally breaks.

“Forgive me,” he sobs as the amber in his eyes bleeds out through remorseful tears, and his hold on her hand fails.

* * *

Dean can’t describe how good it feels knowing that this time he starts his Baby’s engine it’s because they’re finally going home. He hums to himself, thinking about the comfortable familiarity of his own room and his memory foam mattress, rolling the tension free from his shoulders that the hard motel beds have only managed to amplify. He thinks about picking up a pie on the way back to give everyone the incentive to sit around the same table for a change and eat as a family. Maybe even watch a movie? Something Castiel hasn’t seen yet…

 _Cas_.

Dean hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since their brief and unfulfilling Skype conversation. The distance between them in that time feels like it’s stretched so far he may as well be driving home from the fucking moon, and it hasn’t bode well for his diet either. In his limited reserve of coping mechanisms, if alcohol wasn’t on the agenda then stuffing one’s face with sugar would have to do, and even then it fails in comparison to what he really craves. That smile.

“Home sweet home, huh?” Sam chimes, giving Dean a knowing smirk when he turns. “I’m guessing that’s what the longing sigh just then was all about.”

Dean clears his throat. “Damn straight. The second we get back it’s a cold one and a _Columbo_ marathon for me. ‘Course, that’s if Cas hasn’t decided to deconstruct the whole bunker and rearrange it in alphabetical order.”

Sam chuckles, looking down at the black leather book on his lap and instantly the smile on his face begins to wither. Dean frowns.

“So it really was a leather book then, huh?” But Sam doesn’t reply. He looks deeply troubled, far too caught up in whatever the complex circuitry of thoughts his geek-matter is currently processing as he studies the gold emboss on the cover. “Sam?”

Sam opens the book to reveal nothing but a series of blank pages, leaving Dean just as baffled after expecting there to be _something_ written there from what Aaron had confessed. But there is nothing. Dean watches Sam flip through the pages, running a finger down the middle and muttering to himself.

“There’s nothing here,” Sam finally says, “No torn pages either. Nothing.”

Dean shrugs, honestly unable to come up with an explanation. “Invisible ink?”

Sam closes the book and stares at the cover yet again. “I don’t know…”

“Well, don’t give yourself an ulcer over it,” Dean says as he adjusts the rear-view mirror, “We’ll get Cas to give it the once over when we get back.” He puts the car in reverse, about to pull out when Sam speaks again.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam knits his brows, the muscles of his jaw twitching. “Aaron knew about us — I mean, about the Leviathan impersonating us. He looked it up.”

“What, to get our _names?_ ”

“Why else? He found whatever the FBI has on us. He knew enough to write our names in here, and he looked like he’d seen two ghosts walk into that library when we cornered him.”

“That’s ‘cause on paper we _are_ dead, technically.”

Sam bites his lip and shakes his head. “He said ‘monsters that _can’t_ die’… like he had _proof_.” He looks at the book as he mutters to himself, “What does that mean?”

Dean _would_ tell him that it’s impossible, the obvious proof being his own inevitable fate thanks to his deal with Death. But that is precisely the reason why he opts to keep his mouth shut instead. Sam doesn’t need to know the morbid details of why they’re both here, and Dean has no desire to talk about it. Some things are best left unsaid, at least for the sake of what little happiness they’ve managed to hold onto. No need to stir the proverbial hornet’s nest, right?

“It means we’re not dead, and in my book that’s a win,” Dean says as he reverses onto the road, headed for home. And not soon enough.

* * *

Castiel drops another old forgotten box onto one of the library’s desks, bracing himself against its edge when another spasm of pain shoots up his leg. He hisses, rides it out through deep, controlled breaths until he feels strong enough to continue. There’s a lot still to be done before the boys return; many items yet to be catalogued. But he’s happy with his progress so far.

The box is another medley of personal items that once belonged to a previous Men Of Letters member: Old shirts and ties, a dark-tan fedora that Castiel tries on and decides to keep until he can find somewhere to store it, a colt, a silver knife with the previous owner’s initials engraved on the base, some old books, and a vinyl collection. Castiel is elbow deep in the box when he pulls out the last of the items: a small red book with _Fairy Tales and Stories_ printed on the cover, and the name of the author, Hans Christian-Andersen _,_ on the spine. He opens the book, catching the faded black and white pocket-photograph of a young girl as it falls out from between the pages. The daughter of this book’s owner, Castiel muses. He places the photograph back on the sleeve and flips through the book’s pages with curious intrigue, turning to the story of _The Little Mermaid_ and finding the book interesting enough to borrow. He sets it aside from the rest of the items and begins to browse the collection of old vinyl in very good condition for their age. He reads the labels of names and faces he couldn’t even attempt to recognise, but he is familiar with the function of records. They require a device of some sort to play the music, something he has learnt by observing characters in the films he has seen. So there must be one of them here in the bunker.

Castiel gathers the records and picks up his crutch, recalling one of these machines to be here in the library and, limping across the room, he finds it by Dean’s crystal tankard. He takes out one of the records by an artist named Nat King Cole _,_ placing it onto the record player and lowering the needle. But the device doesn’t seem to be working. He squints at it, not that he can simply get it to play by the power of thought alone anymore, but he can’t figure out how to make it work. Kevin is nowhere to be seen either, so he’s on his own this time, left to fight the enigma of human technology which happens to be something of a losing battle. Deciding the machine must be broken he retrieves the record and goes in search of another. _Perhaps there is one in the private rooms?_

Castiel makes his way down the hall, checking the unclaimed rooms in hope of finding one. When he reaches Dean’s door he pauses. He knows he shouldn’t intrude, despite Dean being absent, but this is Dean’s personal space. Dean has always been particular about personal space, however confusing the notion appears when Dean himself doesn’t seem to mind invading _his_ much of the time. His hand hovers over the door handle, torn between opening it and leaving it be. He’s yet to see Dean’s room beyond quick glances from the doorway, and the mystery makes Castiel wonder if this is how Indiana Jones must feel on his adventures - the surge of excitement, the thirst for discovery. Knowing that the dangers of trespassing could be fatal if caught. Temptation is a human trait he has yet to restrain, and he has found that a little more than difficult. He turns the handle.

The door creaks open and he steps inside, flipping the light switch to reveal a cave of personal treasures. Castiel admires the guns on the walls, taking his time to study them and the superfluity of items on the desk with delicate fingers. There are family photos of a young Dean and Sam with their parents, weathered memories tucked into the frame of a mirror. Seeing their smiles filled with such innocence and hope… it makes him feel profoundly sad knowing how rare a thing it is to witness now, and to be responsible for that. He would give anything to see them smile more often. To see _Dean_ smile.

Stepping out of his lamenting he remembers his reason for being here and turns on the record player.

* * *

“Where’s the welcome party?” Dean shouts to an empty room, arms outstretched as he walks down the steps from the bunker’s entrance, a white plastic bag in one hand and a six-pack in the other, Sam following.

 “Hey guys.” Kevin appears in the library’s entrance with a small but genuine smile, and Dean is surprised to see the kid has changed his clothes and taken a shower for the first time in nearly a week.

“Kevin! Good to know Cas hasn’t filed you away in the library archive,” Dean jokes, looking around with a hopeful glint in his eyes, “Where is he, anyway?”

Kevin shrugs. “Beats me. Try checking the fort of boxes he’s been building himself. Seriously, guys, he’s worse than one of my mom’s spring-cleaning frenzies.”

Dean holds up a finger to silence him. “Wait…” There’s music playing - string music. “You hear that?”

The three of them stop and listen, and sure enough the sudden stillness allows the timid harmony to swell until it’s unmistakable. Distracted, Dean hands Kevin the groceries before following his ears.

As he reaches the hallway of private quarters, the melody and vocals are as clear and sharp as crystal, drawing him towards the light of his open door with its swaying 50’s croon.

‘ _When I give my heart it will be completely, or I’ll never give my heart…’_

Dean treads lightly towards the doorway and peers in.

 _‘And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too_ —’

Castiel is stood with his back facing him, a fedora on his head and a hand on the desk as he watches the turntable.

 _‘_ — _is when I fall in love with you.’_

Dean leans against the doorframe and can’t help but smile to himself. This goofball in his room never ceases to amaze him. Castiel is an enigma wrapped in a worn hoodie and faded denim - an old friend and yet a complete stranger. There are things even Castiel has yet to discover about himself now that he is essentially human, things that Dean hopes he will get to know too. Things as simple and as everyday as the kind of music he likes; his favourite colour; his favourite film. Whether or not he likes bacon (which is something Dean takes very seriously). All of these things are mysteries tucked away beneath a tan fedora and dark hair, waiting to be discovered and embraced. And as the needle slips into scratchy static, Dean reckons he’s found a clue.

“Nice hat.”

Startled, Castiel turns and his hand accidently knocks an empty shot glass from the desk. It cracks against the hard floor before rolling under the refuge of the bed.

“Dean!? I —” Castiel stammers, looks as though he’s not sure whether to or not to retrieve the glass first or turn off the record player. He stays in awkward limbo between the two instead. “The, um, music box in the library wasn’t working and I noticed this one and — I didn’t mean to intrude —”

“Woah, Cas. Relax,” Dean says through an amused quirk of his lips as he enters the room, “It’s no big deal. I mean, a door’s not just for decoration when it’s closed, so maybe try asking me the next time you wanna borrow something, okay?” He stands by the side of the bed and gives Castiel the once-over.

“Ditched the apron for the contemporary _Godfather_ look, huh?”

Castiel looks at him with a puzzled tilt of his head before realising that he’s still wearing the hat. He takes it off with what Dean considers to be mild embarrassment. Add to that the particularly wild cowlick on display and Castiel looks downright adorkable. It’s an image Dean thinks he could easily get used to seeing on him.

“I like it,” Castiel says, playing with the lapel between his fingers, “Though, I would say Al Pacino wears it more convincingly.”

Dean chokes on nothing in particular. “Wait — hold the phone,” he wheezes, “You’ve _watched The Godfather_?” Castiel nods sheepishly, quirking his lips in a subtle lopsided smile as Dean begins to close the distance between them.

“ _All_ of them?” Dean asks, taking another unconscious step, not quite believing what he’s just discovered. Castiel remains rooted to the ground.

“There’s more than one?”

When Dean realises that his legs have just carried him half the span of the room without his permission, and right into Castiel’s sphere of personal space, he pauses. Their eyes are locked on one another, and in that moment of silence something passes between them, something that feels less like uncharted waters and more like familiar shores.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his hooded gaze dropping to the five o’clock shadow framing Castiel’s lips. He notices the bob of Castiel’s throat as he swallows and he moves closer, enough to rest a palm on the edge of the desk, pinning Castiel there as a consequence. Okay, so they’re not actually _touching_ , but it wouldn’t take much to fix that. Another step, a subtle lean…

“D —Dean?” Castiel’s breath hitches as Dean’s eyes skim southward before returning to that familiar blue.

“Looks like a _Godfather_ marathon is on the agenda,” he says huskily, “The second one’s the best, just so you know…” He watches Castiel’s eyes flick between his and someplace lower, the usual calm temperament to his features now a tug-of-war between something like naïve elation and unadulterated panic. And _God, those lips_. Dean would swear off pie for the remainder of his life just to taste them.

That is, if fate wasn’t such a vindictive bitch who likes to send conveniently-timed interruptions in the guise of his little brother calling his name as he stomps down the hallway.

_Looks like it’s just the pie then…_

Dean closes his eyes and curses under his breath at their interruption, flexing the hand on the desk as he withdraws. It’s only when he steps back does he realise Castiel is practically sitting on the edge of the desk.

“Uh, am I… interrupting anything?” Sam asks cautiously from the doorway, looking between Dean and Castiel.

“Nope,” Dean says curtly, forcing a tight smile. “Just talking movie-nights, right Cas?”

Castiel is still looking at Dean dewy-eyed as he nods.

“Right,” Sam says, mercifully side-stepping the subject to talk about more pressing matters. “Well, Cas, we were hoping you could tell us anything you might know about this?” He hands the black book to Castiel, and the ex-angel’s expression turns grim.

“Where did you find this?”

“In a med-student’s syllabus,” Dean says soberly, “You know what it is?”

Castiel swallows thickly. “I know of it. We —I mean, the angels, call this ‘The Book of Ananke’. But I’ve heard others refer to is as _‘The Book of Fate’_.”

Sam blinks. “The Book of Fate?”

“It belongs to the three Fates, put under their protection by its creator—their _mother_ , Ananke. But it was lost over a thousand years ago.”

“Well, not anymore,” Dean says with a snort, “FedEx managed to ship it to some angel going by the alias Dina Andersen.”

“ _Dina?_ ”

“Yeah, you knew her?” Dean says, crossing his arms.

Castiel looks wistful as he says, “She sided with me during the fight against Raphael. The angels that stood by me…” He squeezes the book in his hands, and Dean can see that remembering that particularly dark spot in history is proving difficult for him. “They believed in me… but I don’t think they ever understood what it was they were fighting for. _She_ did. She… she is _different_.”

“ _Was_ ,” Dean corrects him, biting his lower lip and bowing his head when Castiel’s disbelieving look becomes too much, “Look, there’s no easy way of putting this, Cas, but Dina’s gone. Someone gave her the Corleone treatment because she had _that book_.” Castiel is glassy-eyed when Dean looks up.

“Cas,” Sam says as he steps up to put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re sorry. But we need to know what the purpose of this book is and why the angels want their hands on it.”

“All I know about the book’s function is that it ends a human’s allotted fate-line if you write their name in its pages.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “When you say _fate-line_ , you mean a person’s _life_ , right?”

Castiel squints. “In a manner of speaking, yes. In simple terms, a fate-line is what you would call a _life-line_. Every human has one. It’s the default span of time allocated to a human soul within a living vessel. Of course, that’s excluding the effects of free will and other anomalies.”

Dean’s blood runs cold, his arms slipping to his sides as he gives Sam a brief sideways glance, suddenly feeling the urge to sprint for the door. He doesn’t, though. But the urge is making him dance from foot to foot like the floor is made of hot coal.

Sam on the other hand just appears to be absorbed in his own introspection when he eventually says, “And this book ends that,” as more a statement than a question.

“Yes. But why the angels would want it? I honestly don’t know,” Castiel says, shaking his head and frowning deeply as he hands the book back to Sam.

“And we’re back to square one again,” Dean grumbles.

“But at least we have _this_ ,” Sam says, holding up the book. “And it’s not in the hands of the angels or anyone else where it can do damage. That’s _something_.” He cards a hand through his mane and sighs. “I’m gonna see if we have anything on this in the Men Of Letters archive. They seem to have everything else.”Dean presumes he’s being sarcastic about that last part as he watches Sam leave. And once again, it’s just him and Castiel… alone… in _his room_.

Dean swallows a dry lump in his throat as he looks at him, but Castiel’s head is bowed, and he seems far away.

“You, uh… you okay?”

Castiel exhales shakily, tilting his head enough that Dean can see the answer for himself, painted in the red rims under his eyes and the wet sheen threatening to spill from their corners. It doesn’t take more than that. Dean is in front of him faster than it takes to blink, leaning down to look Castiel in the eye, both hands squeezing lightly at his shoulders.

“Hey — hey c’mon, buddy,” Dean appeals to him in a soft voice, “What’s wrong?”

“Dean…” Castiel starts, but purses his lips and shakes his head in a sudden change of heart. They’ve been down this road before, and that’s not a response Dean is prepared to settle with. He urges Castiel further, getting close enough to touch noses as he brings a hand to rest on the side of Castiel’s neck, fingers grazing the fine hairs at the nape.

“ _Talk to me_ , Cas.”

It’s like watching the rain fall from clear skies when Castiel finally looks up. A thing that shouldn’t be, and a sight Dean has never seen before. He’s never seen Castiel cry, didn’t think he _could_. But Castiel is full of surprises as Dean already knows. He only wishes that this wasn’t one of them.

“Why must good people suffer for choosing their own destiny?” Castiel says in a small voice, so quiet Dean thinks he would never have heard it if he were not mere inches away from Castiel’s face right now.

“Hate to break it to you, Cas, but that’s life,” Dean says, attempting to humour him but failing.

“Dina wanted the same thing _we_ fought for,” Castiel vouches, “What we _stand for_. How is there any justice in that?”

Dean squeezes the hand on Castiel’s neck lightly as he says, “It’s not about _justice_ , what we do… it’s about _choice._ It’s being able to fight the good fight not ‘cause it’s what we’re _meant_ to do, but ‘cause we _chose_ to. Good and evil, right and wrong, life and death — it don’t mean a thing without it. You know that, Cas. You’re proof of that.”

Their gaze hasn’t broken since Dean started his excerpt of uplifting dialogue, and Castiel hasn’t blinked either. But when he finally does, a lone tear falls down his cheek and he looks away. Dean can’t tell if it’s sadness or something else that lingers at the corners of Castiel’s eyes now, but he hopes that whatever it is, it will dry soon. Dean has cried enough tears for the both of them over the years; anymore and it’ll be a watery grave he finds himself in at the end. And he’d rather not choose that, given the option. He gives Castiel a reassuring pat on the back as he withdraws, and Castiel suddenly reaches out to grab his wrist. Dean’s heart feels like it’s tap-dancing on his ribcage, and he freezes.

“Dean…” Castiel’s voice is a far-off roll of thunder as he says his name, “Thank you.” The hand on Dean’s wrist squeezes lightly, and it feels like his veins are flowing with liquid sunlight. His mouth is dry, and even though he managed to deliver a motivational speech merely seconds ago, Dean finds that the words fail him now. But it doesn’t matter.

Castiel releases his wrist and pushes his weight from the edge of the desk lazily as he leaves without uttering another word.

 

 


	6. The Matchmakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dean accidentally hits Eros (the Greek god of Love) with his car, the boys become temporary cupids in his place and discover that love is not an arrow aimed at the heart, but a castle made of sand.  
> It is also a day of discoveries for Castiel who may finally have answers to some of those niggling feelings...
> 
>  **Chapter Details:**  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Kevin Tran, Eros, OCs  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Warnings:** Mild language, references to masturbation, terminal illness, The Godfather 3 spoilers, movie quotes, Crowley...  
>  **Word Count:** 16,840~  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters (unless own characters). This is purely a fan-created work of fiction and any likeness to real people, places or events is purely coincidental and for the purpose of the narrative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... so this was so much fun to write, and I had it pretty much penned up months ago. I hope you like! And yes - I would love to actually see the boys be cupids for a day in canon, just for the lols. *a girl can dream*
> 
> Song for this chapter is "Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime" by Beck:
>
>>   
> Change your heart  
> Look around you  
> Change your heart  
> It will astound you
>> 
>> I need your lovin'  
> Like the sunshine
>> 
>> And everybody's gotta learn sometime…
> 
> Other song recs include: "Who Wants To Live Forever" by Queen, and **"Face The Sun" by James Blunt** (this one particularly).

### The Matchmakers

 

After years on Heaven and Hell’s most wanted list, desecrating a grave somewhere in South Nebraska in the middle of the night is like a vacation for the Winchesters; a cold, damp, laborious, potentially life-threatening vacation.

The cemetery is old and neglected - barren of any plant life save for patches of overgrown grass and dead weeds and trees that have bent and twisted over the years, their roots like thick veins protruding from the ground, raiding the surrounding graves. Many of the headstones have worn away leaving nameless and forgotten memories behind. Fortunately, though, the grave in question isn’t one of them. Its headstone is lit by a camp light, the weathered engravings of _‘Walter Thomas’_ towering over the fresh hole and its trespasser that continues to dig tiresomely, cursing under laboured breath. Somewhere nearby a single gunshot is fired, and barely a second later Sam flies over the open grave with a yelp and through a neighbouring headstone.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, wincing as he stands just as the ghost of Walter Thomas manifests before him. Sam brings the shotgun to his shoulder and fires a round of rock salt with effortless accuracy and the ghost vaporises long enough for him to catch his breath.“A _fire_ would be nice right about now!”

A mess of muddied hair and a pair of stony green eyes appear from within the hole. “Hey! You wanna do the digging? ‘Cause I’d be more than happy to trade,” Dean bites back, “Jesus, it’s like they were trying to bury the guy in Hell or something.”

“Well hurry up so we can send him there,” Sam says as he watches for the ghost’s return.

“Sick son of a bitch’ll fit right in,” Dean grunts, stabbing the shovel into the dirt angrily, “The things he did to those people…”

“But we’ve got him now. No one else has to suffer because of him.”

“Sam, if there’s one thing I know for sure it’s that, after hunting for as long as we have, it gets harder to tell who the real monsters are. Bumping off people just ‘cause they’re queer makes them more than a monster. Like I said — ghouls, vamps, every ugly mother that’s ever crawled out of God’s armpit including black-eyed bitches — all of ‘em I get. It’s _people_ I don’t.”

The ghost returns suddenly, a grotesque bloodied smile beneath sunken black eyes, and Sam flinches. “Dean —” is all he manages to whimper before he’s being thrown through the air like a rag doll into a tree.

The shovel finally hits something solid and Dean curses with relief as he splinters the wooden casket with one, two, three blows. He throws the shovel over the edge of the grave, pulls himself up with far more effort than he’d care to admit before reaching into his bag to pull out several containers, each holding different powders. The corpse gets a thorough salting before he pours approximate quantities of each of the other powders in clear sections from head to toe in the grave.

“Dean! Fire! Now!” Sam shouts, trying to stand. But the ghost uses its ghoulish super powers to drag him unceremoniously up the tree until he’s pinned a solid couple of feet from the ground.

“You can’t rush perfection, Sam,” Dean says testily.

“Dean!” The ghost vanishes then reappears right in front of Sam, smiling dangerously, “Anytime now would be great!”

And with perfect timing Dean throws the empty container of lighter fluid over his shoulder, reaches into his jacket pocket for a pack of matches and lights them all, holding the blazing torch between his finger and thumb as he smirks down at the open casket.

“Taste the rainbow, bitch.”

He flicks the pack of matches into the open grave and it bursts into searing hot flames covering the full rainbow spectrum. The ghost wails, evaporates in a wisp of fire into the dead of night, and Sam manages to brace himself before falling with a loud _thud_ onto the cold cemetery ground. Dean proudly admires his work as he opens two beers for another job well done.

“How — how did you do that?” Sam says with a wry grin. He takes the bottle offered to him and stares at the rainbow fire like it’s some sort of cheap magic trick.

“Just a few household chemicals and an eye for art,” Dean says smugly, “Basic chemistry, really.”

“Since when did _you_ like chemistry?”

“I dabble…” Sam pulls a disbelieving face and Dean blanches comically. “What!?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Sam says, sniggering, “It’s just… surprising.”

“Well you know me. I’m full of surprises,” Dean says playfully and Sam smiles to himself. They both watch the fire in comfortable silence for a long time as the coloured tendrils continue to burn brightly in the open grave; their own private aurora borealis.

“Man, I’ve missed this,” Dean adds before sipping his beer. Sam throws him a puzzled look.

“Missed what?”

“Y’know… _this,_ ” Dean says, gesturing to the flaming grave and the creepy-ass cemetery, “Being able to actually _hunt something_ for a change, like we used to? Demon bitches going off the radar? Not having to deal with dick angels for the first time in weeks? I could go on…”

“Sounds too good to be true, don’t you think?” Sam says meekly. Dean feels the moment he falls from cloud nine, because he knows it’s too good to be true. There’s no calm without one hell of a storm to follow, and there are always storm clouds on the horizon. But there’s also peace to be found in those momentary streaks of sunshine, few and far between when the rain is pouring so hard it threatens to wear you away inch by agonising inch until nothing’s left. This was supposed to be one of those moments.

“Way to dampen the mood there, killjoy,” Dean grumbles as he downs his beer.

“Look, I know you’re stoked about hunting again, but absent demons and exploding angels? Dean, we’re still walking blind with no leads. The only demon we’ve seen in over a month is Crowley and that’s only ‘cause we’ve got him on a leash.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“Aren’t you worried. Like, _at all?_ ”

“’Course I am. But worrying ain’t gonna help us any.   _This_ — what we’re doing now is more useful than growing a cobweb jacket back in the library and crying over it.”

Sam frowns.

 “I didn’t mean — look, I’m a grunt okay? I need to be out here in the field where the action is, not running through game plans. It’s what I know, what I’m good at, and it’s the only damn thing keeping me from losing my mind.” Dean finishes his drink in a hurry, immediately wishing he’d brought more as he throws the empty bottle aside. The fire cracks and pops in the silence that follows and somewhere in the surrounding trees an owl taunts him.

“You’re not the only one going crazy behind those walls, y’know,” Sam says.

“Kevin’s worked in worse conditions before, Sam. C’mon, you saw the state of Garth’s boathouse. I’m surprised the kid got away with cabin fever and a minor stroke.”

“Right, but… I wasn’t just talking about Kevin.” Sam looks at Dean expectantly, determined to back Dean so far into the preverbal corner he has to admit he knows this isn’t about Kevin, or about them.

“Cas is fine…” Dean says nonchalantly, looking away.

“ _Is_ he?”

That very morning Castiel had damn near pleaded to come with them. He had been all curious blue eyes and wild determination, and it didn’t matter how much Dean admired that in his best friend, the desire alone wasn’t enough. Broken foot aside, Castiel isn’t fine. Dean can see that in the untamed stubble lining a clenched jaw, the unkempt appearance, the sporadic sleeping pattern, the way gravity seems to pull him down and pin him to those crutches. How some days he barely utters a word and how even though he insists that it’s purely the mechanics of adjusting to humanity, his eyes tell a different story. In his silence Castiel is screaming, and it’s like thunder in Dean’s ears. He can still hear its echo from miles away, see the sadness douse the light in Castiel’s eyes as he told him “no”, and the familiar quiet resignation that followed.

“He’ll be fine. The guy just needs to find his sea legs — _leg_ ,” Dean insists, trying to sweeten a metaphorical barrel of lemons with a single grain of sugar. Maybe if he keeps telling himself that he’ll start to believe his own words as easily as he fakes his smile.

He digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighs heavily, watching the fire. Somehow it means to sooth and unsettle him all at once.

“Like old times, huh?” _Like they used to be before it all got so complicated,_ Dean doesn’t say, but the sentiment is there. He’s been digging more than graves today, searching through dusty memories and muddied dreams; a life that once was and a life that could have been. He can see every missed opportunity burn before his eyes in multi-coloured ribbons, fleeting and intangible as they drift into the night air until only the charred bones of regret remain. So many things left unsaid and undone.

How easy it is to strike a match and watch as your future burns to ashes.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking through the fire as it lights his eyes like a prism, the bottle neck hovering at his lips.

But Dean doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t pull his eyes away from the flames. Because despite the thrill of the hunt, digging up that grave has only served to remind him of how hollow he feels inside. That deep nothing he can never fill. No matter how many times he’s tried to justify a _want_ to fill it, a part of him always remains steadfast as it slams the door, seals it up and swallows the key before he has the chance. The more Dean looks at it, the more he thinks that maybe people like him… they don’t deserve to. They’re not _meant_ to want things for themselves. They give all of that up so that the people they love _can_. Or maybe they simply don’t have the heart to risk gaining something more they can lose, too tired to contend with Death, to keep that poker face when they’re playing with a losing hand.

This late in the game Dean knows he’s already dead inside. He’s just waiting for the rest of him to burn up and follow.

They leave the cemetery with barely a word passing between them, heading out into the night on the long stretch of deserted road home. The tape in the cassette player is singing old songs that keep Dean silently tethered to the past, and even in the dark he can see the storm clouds ahead. About an hour into their journey, Queen begins to play.

 _‘There’s no time for us, there’s no place for us,’_ the tape sings its melancholy refrain, ‘ _What is this thing that builds our dreams yet slips away from us?...’_

The radio receives a heated glare from the driver.

“Who the hell picked this?” Dean grumbles, looking to Sam.

“Err, don’t pin this one on me. _Shotgun shuts his cakehole_ , remember?”

The music begins to swell and Dean scowls at the radio.

 _‘Who wants to live forever?_ — _’_

“— Okay, that’s enough of that.” Dean reaches over, ejects the tape and throws it into the back seat without a moment’s hesitation. His eyes are barely off the road for a second.

And that’s just about the moment their “vacation” screeches to a halt.

Something flies straight into the headlights and Dean doesn’t have enough time to react before it hits the bumper and rolls over the body. He slams his foot against the brake pedal, tires screaming against wet tarmac, the world spinning uncontrollably as Dean’s hands squeeze the steering wheel so hard he swears it’ll leave a lasting impression on his palms. It’s all over in a matter of seconds. The car screeches to a halt at the side of the road and the ignition cuts abruptly, but Dean can’t tell because the blood is roaring in his ears.

“Wha — what the hell was that!?” Sam pants, looking at Dean wide-eyed before turning in his seat to see through the rear window, though it’s too dark to make anything out.

“No idea…” Dean breathes, just as freaked. He’s hardly had the time to see his life story flash before his eyes let alone see what the fuck decided to run into the headlights on a suicide mission. “A deer maybe?”

They both scramble out of the car, pointing their pocket flashlights towards the hump in the road behind them - the hump that’s starting to look less like a deer and more like a man. A very unconscious, very still, very _lifeless_ man.

“Oh crap,” Dean grumbles. He just stands there with the flashlight pointing at the body in front of him as his brother crouches down to check for any signs of life. When Sam rolls the man onto his back, both are shocked to see hardly a scratch on him.

“Okay… that’s not normal,” Sam says surprised, and Dean finds the man’s attire just as far from normal as his lack of injuries.

“Yeah, the leather jacket I get. But what’s with the blonde quiff and the bow and arrows?” Dean says, looking at the attractive fair-haired man on the road with a wry expression because that’s not something you see every day — a guy from the set of _Grease_ with a love for archery.

“There’s an unconscious man in front of you who _you’ve just hit with the car,_ and you’re commenting on his wardrobe? _Seriously?_ ” In truth Sam sounds more shocked than he probably is. Dean just shrugs.

“Well, _now_ what?” Dean says exasperatedly. That he’s probably just killed someone doesn’t bother him as much as it should. “Operation _I Know What You Did Last Summer_?”

“We’re not dumping him, Dean,” Sam says, reaching into the man’s jacket pockets to find any form of ID. He pulls out what appears to be a letter written on expensive-looking paper. When he unfolds it there are words written in very elegant hand in some language Dean can’t make out. He moves closer and points the flashlight at the letter, frowning.

“You can read that, right?”

“Looks like Greek,” Sam says, squinting at the markings. At first Sam thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him, but when he tilts the paper he notices that the ink appears to be reflecting the light, glimmering brilliant gold.

“Dean — point the flashlight closer.”

Dean crouches down and moves the flashlight closer. The black markings begin to glow.

“That’ also… not normal,” Dean murmurs with wide eyes. The words then burst into bands of light that inexplicably transform the bold Greek scripture into English as if by magic, which is the only explanation Dean can think of for a parchment version of Google-translate. Sam starts to read the words out loud.

“ _Who so ever bears this decree shall swear to perform the following duty in a binding obligation, as stipulated by the order of Olympus and its constituents …_ ” He lowers the paper slowly and looks at Dean like he’s just seen a clown.

“Thefuckdoes that even mean?” Dean says as he pulls the paper closer to read the words himself, “Who _is_ this guy?”

“Dean, I think you hit —”

But Sam’s words are cut short as the whole sheet decides to go super nova and burns the palms of their hands. They both drop the letter on reflex. After a few seconds the light dies and the letter returns to being a creepy piece of steaming stationary on the wet tarmac.

Dean curses at the burn on his hand and kicks the air. “Son of a — okay, _that_ was the mother of paper cuts. Seriously, who the hell is this guy!?”

“We have to take him with us,” Sam says, ignoring Dean’s outburst and picking up the letter to stuff  into his pocket before reaching over the unconscious blonde man again.

“Like hell we are! We’re not taking greaser-Legolas back to the bunker — this and the dog you hit ain’t the same thing. He belongs in the wild with his own kind… whatever they are.”

“Look, I think he’s some sort of important Greek god and whatever knocked him out, wasn’t us. We should help him.”

“Help him? Right… ‘cause getting involved with gods has never ended badly for us,” Dean scoffs, “What makes you think he’s a good guy?”

“Just trust me for once, okay!?”

Like salt to an open wound Dean inwardly flinches, withdraws. Neither one of them have spoken about what was said in that church all those weeks ago, deciding instead to go on as if nothing between them has changed when in reality it has. There is a distance there, marginal on the surface but like a gaping ravine on the inside, a hollowed-out fruit, and Dean knows he’s to blame for that. But it’s for the best, really. This is protecting Sammy. This is avoiding the truth. This is not having to see his brother mourn his death while he’s still breathing, and resent him for it.

_‘You can’t stand the thought of him hating you.’_

Crowley hit the nail right on its rusty fucking head.

“Fine,” Dean says.

This is the rain as it wears him away in slow motion.  
  


* * *

“This man looks vaguely familiar.”

Castiel tilts his head curiously as he studies the blonde-haired stranger lying unconscious on the sitting room couch with a squint. In the countless times Dean has let those ancient eyes in, allowed them to study his torn and frayed soul, he finds it uncomfortable to see Castiel looking at another with such intensity. It doesn’t matter that Castiel would most likely look at an amoeba under a microscope in much the same way. Dean just doesn’t like how greaser-Legolas is getting all the attention.

 “We found this in his jacket pocket,” Sam says, handing Castiel the slightly singed and crinkled parchment, “It sort of… glowed.”

“It turned into a hotplate, you mean,” Dean corrects him in a gruff voice, rubbing his sore palm at the memory as he moves to stand closer to Castiel until all notion of personal space flies out of the nearest window. “What do you make of all this?”

“His name is Eros,” Castiel says simply as he reads the scripture on the paper.

“You mean _the_ Eros— the _God of Love_?” Sam says, his face lighting up in wonder and disbelief. Dean on the other hand couldn’t give two shits if the guy on the couch was the Fonz.

“It would appear so,” Castiel replies, folding the paper carefully like it belongs in a museum, “And if I am to assume this document correctly, which I _do_ , you are both held temporarily responsible for his post until he is fully capable of redeeming it.”

Sam mutters a “what” from his perch on the empty armchair, obviously understanding something more than Dean who cracks a patronising smile and snorts.

“What, so we’re handling his _mail?_ ”

Castiel sighs as he turns to face Dean, clearly lacking the patience to deal with his ignorance.

“No. You’re _handling_ his _job_.”

Dean blinks dumbly in response.

“Wait… _what!?_ ”

“You’re both temporary cupids in Eros’ stead,” Castiel says simply, handing Sam the folded paper without taking his eyes off Dean, “It’s all in there, under the instructions and terms of the agreement.”

“Whoa — hold on there a sec, Cas. We didn’t _agree_ to anything.”

“Did you touch the parchment?” Castiel asks wearily.

“Uh, _obviously_ —”

“Then you signed it.”

Dean frowns in confusion. “But — that’s not —”

“I’m afraid it is. What’s the expression? _‘You break it, you bought it’_?Well, _he_ appears to be broken,” Castiel points to the comatose god on the couch, “So there is little you can do about it until he wakes. And if you don’t like that then I suggest not incapacitating a Greek god in the future.”

Dean straightens up and just about towers over the crutch-baring Castiel mere inches away.

“Okay. First of all, there’s _no way_ I dinged Hawkeye with my car — _he_ flew into _me_. And second — _what the hell!?”_

Sam must have seen the clench in Castiel’s jaw and the hypothetical lasers melting Dean’s eyes because he stands and pulls his brother aside before there’s another comatose figure in the room.

“Dean, Cas is right,” Sam says, ever the voice of reason when Dean is close to having a blow out, “We walked into this mess, we’ve got to deal with it.”

“But we’re already in a fucking mess, Sam.”

Sam cards a hand through his hair and sighs, “I don’t think we have much choice, do you?”

Dean looks at the couch, praying that the blonde dude will just open his eyes any second now and fire them so that he can get back to banging his head against a brick wall with the fallen angels crisis instead. But Eros is down and out for the count. Lady Luck is a tight-fisted bitch.

“Great. That’s just… that’s awesome. Do you ever get that feeling, y’know… that you’re a character in a story, and some jobless bum’s sat on their ass thinking up ways to screw with your life? Oh. Wait. That’s not a feeling is it? ‘Cause _apparently_ you can find it on the internet.” And oh, how he wishes Chuck was alive right now so he could personally kick his ass with his own shitty novels.

“Dean —” Sam sighs, trying to calm his brother down before he blows a blood vessel. “We’ve had worse…” Dean thinks he’s got a point. Their situation sucks alright, but at least it’s nothing like averting another apocalypse. He’s not sure if he could live through that again. Not anymore.

“So, you got any bright ideas on how to wake Mr Hallmark over there?” he says with a shrug. Sam smiles faintly like he’s testing an idea Dean won’t find appealing.

“We _could_ just do his job, like we’re supposed to?” Sam says, and it’s not appealing. Not in the slightest.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Think about it. All we got to do is follow the instructions on this paper, find the people it wants us to pair up, and make sure the love bug bites,” Sam says with a dorky smile, all smitten over the idea of playing the goddamn chef in _Lady and the Tramp_. Now, don’t get him wrong - it’s not like Dean isn’t a romantic. He’s all for the “power of love”, and however people go about expressing that is their business, not his. He doesn’t need to go perching on crowded branches when he’s already twitterpated beyond hope. And he certainly doesn’t need reminding of it.

“Do we look like the CEOs of match dot com? We’re _hunters_ , Sam. We kill things. _That’s_ our job.”

“And I thought our _job_ was to help people _,_ too? _This_ is helping people.”

“At any rate you are both royally screwed _,_ as you say,” Castiel adds, “This is a binding contract. Even if you decide not to participate the spell will find ways of encouraging your obedience.” Dean snorts at that.

“What’s it gonna do? Fire heart-shaped arrows up my ass until I take the oath?”

“Quite possibly,” Castiel says in all seriousness, “The spell is not malicious but this is still powerful magic, so I expect nothing less than whatever makes your disobedience most uncomfortable.”

“Y’know what? Screw this. Screw that parchment. Screw the cupid-committee. Screw _him_ ,” Dean points to Eros on the couch, “and screw you, Cas. I ain’t playing matchmaker just ‘cause _he_ decided to play hooky. And I didn’t agree to any _binding obligation_ either.”

“If you say so,” Castiel sighs as he sits in the empty chair by the couch and props his bad foot on the coffee table, making himself comfortable like he’s waiting for a movie to start rolling. All he’s missing is the big-ass bucket of popcorn.

“That’s probably a bad idea, Dean,” Sam warns, but it’s useless trying to hammer through his brother’s stubborn resolve when he wears it like a Kevlar vest; an old habit that’ll die hard, just like its owner.

“No. It’s a brilliant idea Sam. It means I get to make myself a goddamn sandwich and watch a flick instead of manipulating some poor bastards’ lives. What about free will, huh? What happened to throwing out the rules and telling these douche bags where they can stick their _divine interference_?”

Sam sighs in defeat because Dean is right after all. This isn’t exactly their line of work.

“You’re seriously going to risk it?” Sam asks him cautiously. Of course Dean is going to. Sam would be more concerned if he didn’t.

“Just watch me.”

“I _would_ argue against the notion,” Castiel drawls, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms, “But then you would simply ignore me anyway. So I suppose I shall just have to sit here and _watch_.” That remark is followed be a lazy head tilt and a glare that could freeze Hell over. Dean is getting a strong feeling that Castiel is pissed at him for some reason, but right now he’s not in any mood to play guessing games or take his gall either. So Dean does _exactly_ what Castiel said he would and ignores him.

“Bite me, Cas,” Dean grumbles as he heads straight for the kitchen to devour his frustration between two slices of bread.  


* * *

“Are you _freaking kidding me!?_ ”

Sam looks up from his desk in the library to find Dean scowling under the archway and holding a sandwich with a modest bite in it. But that’s not what grabs Sam’s attention.

“Why are you… covered in glitter?”

When Dean opens his mouth to explain he stops, looks like he’s going to spill his guts but instead coughs up a cloud of red glitter, caking his hair, face and shoulders further in the process.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbles. He looks down at his sandwich like he’s picked the vegan option by mistake. “The spell glittered my grinder.”

Sam tries really hard not to laugh but fails miserably. Dean continues to hack up a lung as he lumbers over, throwing the sandwich onto the desk mournfully. He notices the half-eaten red apple in Sam’s hand and swipes it, to Sam’s astonishment.

“Hey —”

Dean takes a choke-worthy bite of the apple only to hurl a stream of sparkles barely a chew later. Suddenly everything is made of fucking fairy dust. If Sam was disappointed in losing his snack, it doesn’t show.

“You look like one of those kids that eats the supplies in art class,” Sam says, still snickering. Dean tries to pat himself clean but it really doesn’t make much difference. He’s still sparkling like a ruby slipper.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep laughing, Chuckles. Just ‘cause the spell ain’t screwing around with _you_ yet.”

“And it’s not going to either, ‘cause I’m taking this thing seriously. One of us has to.”

Dean gives up trying to brush the glitter off his shirt and hair, sighing heavily as he nods at the parchment on the desk. “So, what’s it say in the manual?”

“Wow, you caved easily.”

“Messing with food is where I draw the line. The sooner we clock in with this cupid crap the sooner I escape the Martha Stewart kitchen nightmare. So hit me with the instructions already.”

Sam shakes his head as he picks up the parchment, dusting off the glitter that’s started to coat it.

“It says right here that we’ve been gifted a cupid’s tools of the trade — their _mojo._ ”

Dean gapes, blinking disbelievingly. “Seriously!?”

Sam nods, smirking. “Yep. You don’t believe me, check it out for yourself.” He turns the parchment on the desk for Dean to read, pointing at the paragraph in question, and sure enough it’s all there in writing.

“Cupid’s bow, sign of the mark, phsychokinesis, clairvoyance…” Dean mutters, dragging his finger across the words as he reads. His brow creases suddenly and he looks up at Sam, confused, “… _empathic perception?_ ”

“That allows the cupid to read a person’s emotions.”

“Right…” Dean continues reading and a second later his brows sky-rocket. “Flight!?” he all but shouts, “Dude — we can freaking _fly!?_ ”

“In the zapping from point to point sense, yeah,” Sam says, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. He takes the parchment back and checks it again. “I guess it’s like what the angels could do. There’s no actual flying involved, and the instructions say it occurs through the user’s act of thought or will.”

“So… we just gotta _think_ about a place and the spell does the rest, huh?” An idea suddenly hits him. “We need a map.”

Dean disappears down an isle of books, leaving a trail of red sparkles in his wake and finds a map in the archives. He rolls it out over the desk, using a couple of nearby books as makeshift paperweights.

“Want to tell me what you’re planning on doing?” Sam asks him with a raised eyebrow.

“Just testing a theory.” Dean concentrates on the complex veins of the interstate highway system spread out before them, running a finger over the east coast as Sam watches him, curious.

“Okay,” Dean says, taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut so he looks mildly constipated, “Here goes nothing.”

He presses his index finger to a spot somewhere within the spider-web of roads, holding his breath and clenching his butt-cheeks out of habit thanks to past expeditions with Angel-Airlines (make that any airline in general).

Nothing happens.

He pries an eye open expectantly, disappointment sweeping over his face when he’s met with the familiar walls of the library and a questioning look from Sam.

“Forget to click your heels together, Dorothy?” Sam teases, taking the map and folding it.

“Well, _that_ blows.”

Sam sighs as he glances at his watch. “Look, it’s late. We should probably get some sleep for a few hours. Maybe we’ll figure this out with clear heads?” He looks at Dean and snorts as he tries to hold back another outburst of laughter.

“And you should probably take a shower.”  
  


* * *

Dean groans, the tension flowing from him freely as the streams of steaming hot water carry it away.

Showers are like a miracle cure-all to Dean. That, and jerking off whilst he’s _in_ the shower - sort of like killing two birds with one stone, or buying one and getting the other free. Life’s daily dose of crap just flows out of him and disappears down the drain, and he has the chance to feel like his bones aren’t made of lead for a change. The only problem is…

That feeling of euphoria becomes far more transitory when you’re rubbing one out to the thought of your best friend, who happens to be one of the reasons for all that tension in the first place. And if that wasn’t bad enough? It’s become less a product of self-gratification and more an affirmation of something that’s _lacking_. If Dean had to describe how he feels right now, the word _numb_ kind of comes to mind.

He rests his head against the tiled wall and sighs. Being unable to fully enjoy two of your favourite things in the world sucks. And so does being in love with something you can’t have.

He lets go of his dick and lifts his hand to rinse it under the water when he notices a mark on his palm that wasn’t there before.

“The hell?” he mutters to himself, stretching his fingers out and bringing his palm closer until he’s practically cross-eyed. It looks a lot like someone branded the shape of a cupid bow onto his skin, and coincidently the same hand the freaky “cupid clause” burnt. He rubs it with his other thumb in a feeble attempt to wash it off, but the mark remains. _That fucking cupid spell._ Of course it is. And like most of his sorry excuse for a life, there’s not much he can do about it now except stick to the fucking script.  
  


* * *

  
When Dean walks into the sitting room, Castiel is still sat in one of the leather arm chairs. The TV is on this time, _The Godfather Part III_ apparently far too enthralling for Castiel to notice him stood behind the couch. It’s no big deal, really. That pivotal apology scene between Michael and Kay deserves attention. So Dean waits, absently drying his hair with the towel draped around his shoulders as he takes a seat in the arm chair at the other side of the couch, unable to move any closer thanks to the comatose god hogging all the space. The scene unfolds, but Dean’s eyes are fixed on Castiel in the seat opposite.

_[MICHAEL] ‘I want you to forgive me.’_

_[KAY] ‘For what?’_

_[MICHAEL] ‘Everything.’_

Castiel looks sad.

 _[MICHAEL] ‘You couldn’t understand, back in those days. I love my father – I swore I would never be, a man like him – but I_ loved _him. And he was in danger; what could I do? And then later,_ you _were in danger. Our children were in danger. Look at it. You were all that I loved, valued, most in the world. And I’m losing you – I lost you – anyway. You’re gone, and it was all for nothing, so… you have to understand, I had a whole different destiny planned …’_

Dean pulls the towel off his shoulders and slouches against the leather, hands squeezing lightly at the arms of his seat as he continues to study Castiel’s reactions. There is a telling sheen to his eyes, from what Dean can tell. The scene has obviously hit something close to home. And it would. At least it does for Dean. He can understand. He can relate to Michael in a way - dragged into a life he never wanted, unable to escape, and finding that he probably wouldn’t even if he could. He tried that once and look how that turned out. Plans don’t matter - they don’t mean shit half the time. Dean learnt not to bother about the future a long time ago.

His trail of thought draws him in enough that he doesn’t recall when Castiel had stopped watching the TV to return his look.

“Couldn’t wait for part three, huh?” Dean says without humour. “Thought we were watching these, y’know, _together?_ ”

“You were preoccupied,” Castiel deadpans. And _again with the ice._ Even though seconds ago he looked like he was about ready to turn on the waterworks. Dean can barely take the yo-yoing any longer.

“If you’ve got something you wanna say, Cas, just say it,” Dean says flatly. “Enough with the super snowva already — I’m not a mind reader. I don’t read Abominable Snowman.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You don’t appear to read English either, judging by your current predicament.”

Dean purses his lips, tonguing where he’s managed to chew through his gum from the tension slowly returning. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he says, pulling himself to the edge of his seat and raising his arms in defeat. “Fine. Have it your way. If you’re not gonna tell me what the hell your problem is then I’m not gonna sit around here freezing my ass off.”

“I’ve already told you what _the problem_ is,” Castiel retorts. “Would you like for me to repeat our conversation? Or shall I write it down on my cast for you to _read?_ ”

“If this is about you hunting then I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the answer’s still no.”

“Dean —”

“The answer’s _no,_ Cas! Do I need to spell it out for you in neon lights!?” Dean’s shoulders feel like they’re in knots again, because they’ve had this argument already - multiple times, in fact. “You ain’t in any shape to be on the job — and even if you were, your head’s someplace else. I mean, an injury is a liability, but a hunter not thinking straight is as good as dead. And I’m not prepared to take that risk. You’re _not ready_. That clear enough for you?”

“You can’t lock me in here forever.”

“What’s with the rat race envy, Cas? What’s out there that’s so damn important? ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t digging up graves.”

“I want _resolve_ , Dean,” Castiel confesses in a level voice, leaning forward in his seat and holding his face in his hands before brushing them through a dark muss of hair irritably.

“I’m not an angel anymore, and it’s clear from the state of things that I suck now just as much as I sucked back then when I _was_ one. I broke three bones in my foot after barely a day without my grace. This cast is a _constant reminder_ of my failures and it’s stopping me from being useful, and the last thing I want is to be resentful and without purpose. I’m responsible for what happened to Dina — for _everything_ that is wrong with Heaven, and I _have to make it right_. Truthfully…” Castiel trails off, shaking his head, “… That is the only way I can justify why I’m still alive.”

Dean can hardly believe what he’s hearing. It’s like being in that motel room again, listening to Castiel admit his thoughts about taking his own life. How can he value himself so little? Because in Dean’s opinion, the only one sat in this room with reason for that is himself.

“That’s… that’s not true, Cas —”

“No. _It is_. Dean, _this_ is my penance. All of the mistakes that I have made keep following me like my shadow and I _have_ to fix them. And if I’m to do that, then I need to start somewhere beyond domestic chores.” Castiel glances at the TV, but he’s not watching it.

“I know I’m not a leader or a good soldier,” he says quietly, “Not anymore… So what does that make me now?”

_God, if only you knew._

Castiel is so much more than a friend, so much more than an ally or an instrument in Dean’s toolbox. Dean wants to tell him that there’s no quantifying how much he means to him. That falling for a socially awkward dork in a backwards tie was probably the dumbest and smartest thing that he’s ever done. He wants to tell Castiel that losing him feels worse than dying, and that he wishes he wasn’t such a spineless dick when it comes to saying how he feels. All of those things would do. But so would three simple words, and they are words he’s yet to say.

“Family,” Dean settles for instead, simple and instinctive, but Castiel’s eyes are glassy when he looks at him, smiling tightly. It’s hollow, pained, a mask that doesn’t suit him.

“But not useful,” Castiel murmurs with the tilt of his head. And there - _right there_ \- in that moment, Dean feels it. He feels the weight, like a mountain on his shoulders forcing him into the ground, the absolute helplessness as it pulls on his ankles and drags him into its watery depths. And _God, the ache._ That familiar yearning ache in his heart, now doubled, filling his chest cavity like a balloon with too much air and threatening to burst. But none of these emotions are his. They’re _Castiel’s_ emotions, he can sense it. He damn well _knows._

Dean rubs the mark on his palm with his other thumb, hard, trying to shut out the emotional overload and concentrate on the physical, but it does little good. His eyes are cloudy, and he’s barely breathed since it all started. He’s also said _absolutely nothing_.

Castiel bows his head and rises from his seat sluggishly before limping through the doorway and out of sight. Dean doesn’t follow him. And neither does the feeble whisper of Castiel’s name on his lips.  
  


* * *

When Dean wakes the following morning his head feels like someone removed his brain and replaced it with cotton wool. He sits up and throws his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes and brushing a hand through his hair, trying to drag his ass back into the cold, waking world - something he can’t seem to do as easily these days without a helping hand from his old friend caffeine. _A coffee would be great right about now_ , he thinks, hating the thought of having to drag his ass completely out of bed. He pinches the bridge of his nose and grumbles to himself like the grumpy old man he is in a morning. That’s before the sound of metal and ceramics colliding makes him jump half out of his skin.

“H-holy shit — what - what the _fuck_!?” Kevin yells, a frying pan in hand and looking scared out of his mind. Dean’s first thought is why the hell Kevin would be in his room with a frying pan, but then he wakes up to his surroundings. He’s _not in his room_.

“Why am I… in the _kitchen_?” Dean mumbles, more to himself than Kevin over in the corner. He looks around completely disorientated. “What just happened?”

“You tell me,” Kevin says, “You’re the one who just materialised in that chair.”

Dean’s brow creases and he looks down at his palm with the brand. _Flight… right…_

“It works,” he murmurs, starting to feel less in need of that coffee.

“What?”

Dean looks up and shakes his head, not wanting to bother explaining the cupid mess they’ve gotten themselves into. “Okay, unless you plan on cooking breakfast you wanna lower the frying pan there, Kev? You’re making me nervous.” Kevin does as he says, backing towards the cooker but still looking at Dean like he’s afraid he’ll suddenly zap behind him or something. Dean grins wickedly.

“Sam up yet?”

Kevin shakes his head as he loads the toaster.

“Right,” Dean says, standing and stretching his arms in front of him in a gimmick, cracking his neck. “Back in a minute.”

Then he vanishes. A moment later and Kevin can hear a door flying open and Sam cursing loudly from down the hall, the sound of bare feet slapping against the floor as he bursts through the kitchen doorway.

“Where is he!?”

“Mornin’ Sammy,” Dean says with a shit-eating grin, sat in his seat again with his bare feet propped up on the table. “Thought I’d save your alarm the trouble.” The look on Sam’s face is closer to irritation and exhaustion than scorn. He looks like he’s hardly slept at all.

“So, let me guess — strange rash appeared last night? Kinda itchy?” Dean provokes his brother, resting his hands behind his head, the grin still very much plastered across his face. Kevin looks disturbed.

“Yeah, but when you put it that way…” Sam says, rubbing a hand absently.

“You know there’s a cream for that.”

Sam rolls his eyes and pours himself a coffee, “Looks like the spell’s working, which means we’ve got a job to do.”

Dean beckons a slice of toast to him as it springs out of the toaster, mostly to show off. “Why d’you have to spoil the fun, Sam?” he complains, forgetting the butter as he takes a bite. Sam sits in one of the empty chairs opposite, his giant frame no longer blocking Dean’s view of the doorway where he suddenly sees Castiel.

He’s seen Castiel with the morning-look most days since he started living in the bunker, but on this _particular_ day he looks more ruffled than usual; his grey tee crinkled and partially tucked into the low-riding black pyjama bottoms that make his feet look like they’re non-existent, the darker shade of stubble framing his jaw, the sleepy-squint, and _that goddamn hair_ —

“Good morning,” Castiel croaks, scratching his stomach as he wanders into the kitchen and pours himself a mug of coffee. Dean throws his legs off the table and pulls on the hems of his boxers, suddenly remembering that he’s sat in nothing but an old black tee and his underwear. His entire body tenses up, and he swallows thickly when Castiel takes a gulp of the bitter beverage, watching the bob of his adams-apple hypnotically. Castiel takes a seat between them, only slightly closer to Dean’s sphere of personal space. He chances a fleeting-look at Dean before his eyes are downcast on his mug. Kevin gives him a courteous “morning” from the kitchen stove as he starts cracking eggs into the pan.

“Morning Cas,” Sam says quietly, eyes flicking between Castiel and Dean like he’s waiting for something to happen.

“Uh, morning…” Dean clears his throat and lowers his arms, fidgeting with his branded palm again and trying not to stare at him - _trying_ being the operative word.

“I thought I might practice operating a firearm in the shooting range,” Castiel says to Sam, although Dean gets the impression that this is also a stab at _him_ after last night’s conversation. In fact, Dean doesn’t need to guess. He can _feel_ the mild resentment there.

“I admit… I’m not familiar with the different class of paraphernalia, though perhaps you could offer some suggestions?” Castiel adds, giving Dean a brief sideways glance that has his stomach doing somersaults. And once again, he feels that same ache in his chest. Of course, it could be _his emotions_ \- it’s getting difficult to tell the difference. But the truth is crystal clear and painfully obvious, as in cheap chick-flick obvious: Castiel feels the same way _he_ feels, there’s no mistaking that. And if Dean knows one thing, it’s that those feelings are hard to ignore. He never felt like _this_ until he spent a year in God’s armpit with nothing but his own unyielding thoughts to keep him company during his night watches, and those were often spent praying anyway. Whether or not _Castiel_ knows what they mean however is an entirely different kettle of fish.

 _Do angels_ — ex-angels _even know the feeling?_

By the look on Sam’s face he appears to have tapped into their reservoir of emotional repression because he’s _looking right at Dean_ as he replies, “I’m not sure, maybe you should ask Dean. He’s more the expert in that kind of thing.” _Bitch._

“No, uh, I think we’ve got someplace to be, _right Sam?_ ” Dean says abruptly, the legs of the chair screeching against the tiled floor as he stands and pulls on his slightly-too-short tee self-consciously. “I’ll just — I’m gonna go and… yeah …” Then he zaps his semi-naked ass back to his room.  
  


* * *

“Right… run that by me again.”

Sam sighs as he’s forced to repeat himself. “Okay, look. The parchment gives us a list of names and locations of those names, but only two at a time.” He points to the current two names on the paper with their respective coordinates.

“We find those locations on the map, right? Think _really hard_ _about it_ , zap over there, find the marks and then figure out a way of getting them to hear harps when they see each other… something like that.”

Dean nods, but his frown remains. “Gotchya. But, you wanna explain to me how we’re supposed to _know_ what these, uh, ‘marks’ or ‘targets’ or whatever even _look_ like?”

“Guess we’re about to find out,” Sam says, finding the location on their map and pressing his index finger to it. Dean pouts, still preferring the idea of a bacon sandwich to starring in the cupid-edition of _Bruce Almighty_ , and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Ready?” Sam says through a quirk of his lips.

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean mutters, clenching his butt cheeks.

They both close their eyes, and instantly Dean can see flashes of images in his mind’s eye - buildings, streets, people walking and driving in the organised chaos of everyday life. The noise of traffic and bleating car horns joins them soon after, and Dean feels the air shift. When he opens his eyes he’s stood outside of a Starbucks somewhere in Lower Manhattan, New York, being glared at by several disturbed civilians who just saw two men literally materialise in front of them.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Dean mutters, marvelling at the towering architecture and busy streets slack-jawed. “Now what?”

The blonde in the pencil skirt currently inside the coffee shop behind them is _one_ potential answer, if glowing like a pink rod of plutonium is anything to go by.

“So… what’s your bet that’s the ‘sign of the mark’ thing the parchment mentioned?” Dean says, surprisingly unfazed. He’s seen a weirder shit.

“That’d be one of them,” Sam says, pulling out the parchment from his coat pocket. “Linda Grey, according to this.”

“And I’m guessing Kaio-ken Son Goku over there is mark number two,” Dean adds, directing his brother’s attention to the man with the same pink aura approaching from down the street. Dean smirks. “What are the odds of that, huh?”

“Andrew Turner,” Sam confirms, “Looks like it.” They watch their second mark enter the coffee shop and join the line, about three or four people behind the other.

“Got any bright ideas on how we do this then?” Dean asks, “’Cause if not, a couple things kinda spring to mind. Ever watch _Serendipity?_ ”

Sam blinks, throws him a smug look. “No, but apparently _you have_ , right?”

“Once…” Dean says, suddenly embarrassed for admitting that, “… with Lisa, y’know... Anyway, I got this one.” He smacks Sam on the chest and joins the back of the growing line of customers before Sam can object.

Okay. So maybe that part of him that didn’t want to start perching on crowded branches, to interfere… maybe it’s just not much of a match against the romantic he really is at heart. And he won’t ever tell Sam this, but maybe he actually enjoyed _Serendipity_. Like, _a lot_. What’s wrong with liking the idea that there’s something out there for everyone, even if he’s the only exception? Doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy a good flick. So sue him.

Stood at the back of the line Dean does a promiscuous lean to his right, trying to get a better look at mark-number-one (a.k.a Linda Grey or whoever she is) who is the next customer to be served. These New York baristas are like machines. If he doesn’t think of something soon they’ll have to start chasing after their marks in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the country.

 _Fuck that_.

Dean does a theatrical cough and one of the blenders behind the counter starts spurting iced vanilla frappe or whatever the hell kind of drinks these people order here. The baristas have a mild freak-out, and it’s distracting enough for Dean to figure out what he’s dealing with. Mark-number-two (a.k.a Andrew what’s-his-name) looks like he just walked straight out of a Metallica gig, an impressive sleeve of tattoos covering his bare arms - most of them comic-book characters too. Linda on the other hand seems your ordinary girl-next-door type - pretty, a natural look to her, smartly-dressed. If Dean didn’t already know that these two were on Love’s hit-list, he would never have guessed. They look like polar-opposites. But that’s before he notices a Spider-man keychain on her bag that could be a potential deal-clincher.

He waits; watches as Linder finally gets her coffee and starts walking down the side of the line towards the door. It only takes a sly mental twist of the keychain’s clasp to separate it from her bag and with the flick of his wrist he manipulates its trajectory so that it lands on Andrew’s boot. Andrew notices, picks it up before turning to call after Linda who has already made it to the door.

“Hey - _Hey!_ ”

Dean watches Andrew abandon the line to follow after her, swinging the door open hard enough to almost knock Sam - who is still observing from outside - back on his feet. Andrew finally catches up with Linda, putting an arm on her shoulder to get her attention. She turns.

“You, er… you dropped this,” Andrew says, handing Linda the keychain. Linda looks a mixture of surprised and relieved as she thanks him.

“I guess his web shooters are on the fritz today, huh?” Andrew jokes with a warm smile, unable to take his eyes off her. Linda chuckles to herself as she squeezes the keychain in her hand.

“Well he’s a lot like his owner,” she smile shyly, “But at least your ‘Spidey-senses’ were working.” Andrew is beaming as the pink aura surrounding him disappears, Linda’s following soon after. He extends his hand.

“Andrew.”

Linda takes it without a moment’s hesitation. “Linda.”

And that’s that, apparently. The two of them are in the midst of conversation when Dean struts out of the coffee shop with a grin like a Cheshire cat. Sam looks genuinely impressed.

“Wow,” he says to Dean who is stood next to him practically glowing himself with pride, “What happened to ‘not our jobs’?”

Dean shrugs, “It ain’t. But, y’know… if you’re gonna do something, then do it right.”

“Sure,” Sam says slowly, the corners of his mouth quirking as he says, “But… you do know that all you had to do was touch them, right?”

Dean blinks dumbly.

“Wuh?”  
  


* * *

Castiel is restless.

The boys have been gone all morning, and in that time he’s managed to finish re-cataloguing the bunker’s library, leave the kitchen in a state that requires the use of sunglasses, alphabetise Dean’s entire DVD collection, prep dinner, _and_ work on his upper-body muscles in the gym even though Dean had expressly forbid him to do any training until fully healed. It’s barely noon, and Castiel is struggling to keep himself from losing his mind.

He abandons the small book of fairy tales that he’s been reading for the past half hour and sets it aside on the arm rest of his seat, sighing. It’s not that the book isn’t interesting. It’s just that he can’t seem to relax. And Dean won’t leave his thoughts either. It’s exhausting, even though he feels wide awake and maddeningly wired. Castiel just can’t put his finger on the reasons why that is - he’s irked at Dean right now, or at least he thinks he should be. But he’s felt anger, and this isn’t how that usually feels.

“The word you are searching for is called _Love_ ,” a well-spoken voice mutters from the couch beside him. Castiel stirs, noticing that the figure that had been sprawled unconscious a moment earlier is now sat upright and clearly awake.

 “You need not fret over it,” Eros continues as he rubs his head gingerly, “It confuses everyone.”

Castiel squints, whispering the word to himself until the realisation finally sinks in and he starts having palpitations. He’s far from squinting when Eros speaks again.

“And I am afraid I cannot guarantee that you will feel any less restless upon discovering that.”

“I…,” Castiel breathes, trying to remember how words work, “… Love…”

“Yes,” Eros says simply through a small smile that creases the corners of his eyes. Castiel squirms in his seat, suddenly unable to get comfortable or stay still for that matter.

“ _Human_ love?”

“I know of no love bound to a single progeny of creation,” Eros says with a confused squint.

Castiel licks his lips and takes a second to actually _breathe_. “I mean to say, um… one of… romantic inclinations…”

“Of course.”

Castiel swallows thickly, squeezing the ends of the arm rests until his knuckles are white. _Dean… I…love…_

“I thought that it may come as a shock to you,” Eros adds, “This form of love is often difficult to comprehend for most humans. That an angel should harbour such an emotion is quite extraordinary.” He says that with sincerity and genuine admiration in his eyes.

“You are mistaken. I’m… I’m no longer an angel.”

“Perhaps not in the literal sense, no. But you were made one. And the love that you feel — I can sense that it has made itself a home within you for quite some time now. It seems only logical that it would outgrow its walls eventually.”

“I…,” Castiel can’t find the words. Discovering that you have loved - no, been _in love_ with someone without ever knowing it is inconceivable. How could he have felt this for so long and never realised!? But when he observes the situation more closely and trusts his memory to offer him a clue at least, the evidence is written in bold red and couldn’t be any more obvious if it tried. Their _profound bond_ , as he had once called it - was never simply formed out of friendship alone, devoted as he is and has been to Dean over the years. It _bound him_ to Dean - _completely_. And he has been bound ever since.

“Give it time,” Eros reassures him, “And _let it grow_. It will become clearer if you cease to conquer it.”

Castiel exhales heavily, closing his eyes. And strangely enough, he feels a sense of relief despite the near cardiac-arrest the discovery had given him. When he opens his eyes, Eros appears to be looking for something in his jacket pockets.

“The parchment is in reliable hands,” Castiel tells him. “The Winchesters are taking care of it.”

“The Winchesters?” Eros says, as if he knows of whom Castiel speaks and is surprised to hear the news. “I see.”

“If I may ask, Eros,” Castiel starts, leaning forward in his seat, “What happened? The Winchesters told me that they, um, happened to stumble upon you on the road last night.”

Eros suddenly looks grim. “Castiel… Do you know of the conflicts taking place between your kind?”

“I know of it,” Castiel says wearily, “but I have no knowledge of who is prompting it or why. Although… I suppose I could take a guess at the latter.” He frowns as his admission to Dean the previous night runs fresh in his mind, and the guilt churns in his stomach.

“I was afraid you might say that,” Eros says gravely. “I had hoped that you would shed some light on the matter. It was because of this conflict that your friends found me in such a state. I had been en route to my next mark in Nebraska when I had the misfortune of encountering a feud between two parties of angels — call it ‘being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ I must have provoked them somehow. A most troubling happenstance as it were.”

“But there were definitely two distinct factions?” Castiel says with ardent eyes. Eros nods, and the confirmation does little to settle the anxiety in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. It only serves to provoke it. Eros gives him a sympathetic look.

“I am sorry that I cannot offer you any further incite, but that is all I could gather from what happened.” Eros stands, broadening his shoulders where Castiel imagines he could see wings if he were not without his grace. “Now, I must take my leave. Your friends will no doubt appreciate my return,” he says with a smile.

“’Appreciate’ is probably the wrong choice of words,” Castiel retorts with a small smile of his own. “But I can imagine they will be relieved.”

“Then I endeavour to relieve them as soon as possible.” Eros extends his hand, and Castiel takes it. “You have my gratitude, Castiel. Should you require my assistance in any way, I will always be there to offer it. You are stronger than you think. And remember what I told you,” he says with sobriety, placing his other hand on their grip. “ _Embrace it._ ”

And then Eros is gone.  
  


* * *

Overlay a generic upbeat love-song as the soundtrack to their montage of serendipitous Kodak moments, and the boys have themselves a string of matchmaking successes under their belts worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. They’re on a damn roll, zapping from state to state, town to town, leaving a cloud of magical fucking rainbows and hearts in their wake. Who knew that being a cupid could actually be fun? Dean hasn’t ganked a single supernatural thing for nearly twenty-four hours and he’s legitimately enjoying himself. It’s surprisingly easy, too.

That is, until the next two names appear on the parchment.

“Okay,” Sam sighs, exhausted as he reads, “Next up is Debra Reyes and Caleb Mendoza in Pensacola Florida…” The creases in his brow deepen, “… and San Diego.”

Dean blanches. “Well… that’s a first. Everyone else was in the same _state,_ at least. What gives?”

“Beats me, but that’s what it says,” Sam replies with a shrug. “No use arguing with it now.”

 _So much for a track record of easy wins_ , Dean muses as that rare streak of pride commits seppuku. “Awesome,” he says wryly, “So, where to first? San Di-argo, or The Lost World: Jurassic Park?”

 

**_Sacred Heart Hospital, Pensacola, Florida_ **

The state of Florida harbours a mixed-bag of attributes for Dean. On the one hand there’s the sun, the beaches, the scantly-clad women and oiled-up surfer-types he admits he may have a bit of a kink for. But then on the other, there are the annoying tourists and the fact that most people migrate to Florida when they’re shrivelled and dried out like prunes. It’s basically as cliché as you can get for a place people go to kick the proverbial bucket, and consequently a subtle reminder of his own forced retirement lingering behind him in his shadow, waiting for the right moment to stab him in the back.

They arrive outside of a hospital just as the freaky coordinates on the parchment had instructed them.

“There a reason why Cupid Airlines dumped us here, Sam?” Dean says, hating the sight of yet _another_ health service after his fair share over the past month and a half - make that life time.

“It’s got to be where the first mark is,” Sam says, digging a hand into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. “Maybe she works here?” He scrolls down the touch screen with admirable mastery thanks to an addiction to Candy Crush before showing Dean the directory of medical staff on the hospital’s web page. “Look —”

“Bingo,” Dean smirks as he reads the name _Dr. D. Reyes_ below the picture of a warm-eyed woman with short brown hair, some hope restored to their mission. “Time to bring Dr Sexy to Sacred Heart.”

The boys stroll into the hospital and Sam takes the opportunity to look around, trying not to seem suspicious or anything as he checks out the picture board of medical staff by the reception where Dean is attempting to get the attention of a nurse.

“Hey,” Dean cracks a charming smile at the receptionist, “I’m looking for Dr Debra Reyes.”

“Patient visiting hours are between five and eight,” the receptionist replies in a monotone voice, licking her finger to turn the page of her glossy celebrity magazine. Dean has a slight mental blip that shows in the confused wrinkles on his face.

“Uh, okay, look I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m looking for a _doctor_. Debra Reyes is a doctor here.

“Was,” the receptionist corrects him, finally glancing up from her magazine, “She retired about six months ago. Sorry, who are you?”

Dean feels his stomach churn, and his good mood take a nose dive. “Just, uh, a friend. Which ward is she in?”

The nurse pouts, surveying him suspiciously. “Cardiac ward… She didn’t mention she’d be having any visitors today.”

“Well, I, uh, thought I’d, y’know, surprise her,” Dean stammers, patting his coat and jeans pockets theatrically. “Seem to have left the flowers at home though.”

Sam meanwhile has taken it upon himself to start exploring the nearby hallways, drawn to something apparently. He looks up at the sign post above a set of double doors that reads ‘ _Cardiac Unit’_ with a bunch of other names and arrows as directions. He turns to signal Dean, who catches him at the corner of his eye.

“I’ll, uh, just go and pick ‘em up,” Dean finishes with a fake smile as he backs away from the reception desk until the nurse’s attention returns to her glossy magazine. Then Dean subtly side-steps out of sight and strides over towards his brother.

“I think she’s here,” Sam says.

“Well, you’re not wrong. But I seriously doubt she’ll be playing _House_ anytime soon,” Dean adds gravely, wiping a hand over the stubble of his mouth as he delivers the grim news. “She’s a _patient_ , Sam.”

Sam’s face falls as he mutters “What?” and looks up at the sign post above the doorway again. “There must be some mistake.”

“Only one way to find out, right?” Dean mutters, trying to wear a positive smile that feels two sizes too small as he opens the doors for them.

And it’s just as he feared.

Debra is sat upright in a hospital bed by the window of one of the patient rooms, glowing a healthy shade of neon-pink but looking far from sprightly. There is a fresh bouquet of daffodils on the bedside stand offering some colour to the sterile grey of the walls surrounding her as she reads from a book. Sam and Dean are stood in the doorway watching silently with pained eyes for sometime before Sam finally picks up the courage to say something.

“Could just be… something superficial?”

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel any better,” Dean grumbles, glancing at Sam by his side as the picture facing them becomes too much. “I think it’s time to call it quits, don’t you?”

Sam looks at him incredulously. “Dean, we came here to do a job. A hospital bed isn’t always the be-all-and-end-all.”

“That ain’t the case when you look at our track-record, Sam.”

“But we won’t know that for sure unless we _try_.”

Dean watches as Sam steps into the room and picks up one of the crappy plastic visitor chairs by the door, carrying it over to the bed next to Debra’s like it’s made of paper. He takes a seat and pretends to be visiting the man in the bed currently in an induced coma. Dean is itching to leave him there, truthfully, but he doesn’t. He shouldn’t. So he mans-up and joins his brother by the bedside. They don’t talk for a while, occasionally looking up to study the glowing woman in the bed next to them. After a time Debra looks up from her book and smiles. Sam takes that as his cue to start a conversation.

“Just wanted to be here in case he wakes up,” he says quietly. “I know what it’s like to wake up in a hospital bed with no idea what day it is. Having someone there for you… it keeps you grounded.”

Debra puts the book down on her lap.”He’s in safe hands here,” she says in amiably.

“I don’t doubt it,” Sam smiles, and Dean can see that he’s being sincere as he adds, “I owe my life to doctors.”

“It’s nice to hear some gratitude for a change,” Debra says. “Usually it’s the opposite, or a hair’s breadth away from a law suit.”

“You’re a doctor?” Sam asks, faking surprise and sneaking the metaphorical boot in the doorway like the genius he is.

“I _was_. But it tends to get difficult to treat patients when you’re one yourself,” Debra says whimsically.

“Sorry to hear that. I hope it isn’t anything serious.”

Debra shakes her head and bites her lower lip. “Well, you see, that’s the thing,” she says quietly, “Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy is a pretty serious condition. I’ve been in medicine for nearly fifteen years, watching people come and go through these doors. You try your hardest to save them all, but you know that not everyone who checks in will be checking out the same way. The donor waiting list is one of the worst parts about the job… waiting for the right transplant to turn up before you run out of time. Not everyone makes it.” She bows her head as she forces a smile, but it’s as fleeting as it is shaky. “Fifteen years delivering the bad news, and now I find myself sat on the other side of that desk. What are the odds of that?”

“Is there a transplant?” Sam asks her.

“Not yet,” Debra says, wincing as she leans over to place the book on the side table. “I give myself a month, if I’m lucky. The chances that a heart turns up in time… they’re slim to nothing. But hey, that’s just how things turn out sometimes.”

“At least you got family, right?” Dean says, every ounce of pride and elation he savoured from their recent jobs evaporating until the well is bone-dry and he feels that gaping emptiness again. Debra shakes her head.

“Only my mom, but she’s in a home. Alzheimer's. I pooled most of my wages into keeping her comfortable there. When you choose the kind of career I had… it gets difficult to settle down and start your own family.” She rubs her wrists, her eyes glassy when she says, “I pretty much gave up on that idea a long time ago. I made a choice, you know? And I stuck to it. I wanted to help people. And I did, for a time. I did.”

Dean can read her emotions like a professional poker player. It’s all there, under the small smile and behind the teary eyes. Debra _loved someone._ A long time ago. The feelings are all there, still there, buried deep but undeniable. She _still loves_ _them_. And it’s breaking Dean’s heart to see it.

“You know, the heart is a funny thing,” Debra says after a moment’s silence, gazing out of the window forlornly, “We take advantage of it, abuse it, ignore it… But we depend on it to keep on beating anyway. I suppose it does because there’s still hope there, somewhere. I like to think that’s true.”

The legs of the chair screech against the floor before it tips over as Dean stands suddenly, striding across the room and out through the doorway. Sam looks worried as he stands too, calling after him.

“Dean, wait!”

“Leave it, Sam,” Dean shouts gruffly, marching towards the double doors at the end of the hallway until Sam grabs him by the arm to stop him.

“No. You need to tell me what happened back there,” Sam says, not about to loosen the iron grip on Dean’s arm.

“If we go through with this,” Dean starts firmly, making sure his brother can see the anger and frustration in his eyes, “It’ll be a dick move, Sammy.”

“It’ll be a dick move to pull out now,” Sam counters, not flinching or blinking as he matches Dean’s intensity.

“You’re joking, right?” Dean scowls, “She’s basically tap dancing on Death’s doorstep in there, and _now_ her number’s been called? That’s all kinds of wrong, Sam, and you know it.”

“Are you saying we should just… let this go? After _everything_ we’ve done today?”

Dean clenches his jaw and loses their staring contest. He recalls their string of success, the elation and hope and complete infatuation painted on the faces of the people who found love today. And all thanks to them. He tries to remember what it had felt like to witness those moments, to know that he was a part of something beautiful and new, but he can’t. He’s numb, empty, thanks to a screw-up in the cupid administration. The only feeling he has now is a sinking one, on a hunch that the “push” from the cupids never came for Debra when she needed it all those years ago. Love failed her, and there’s nothing they can do to make up for that. Not when time’s running her into the ground.

For all his hunting skills as a slayer of the worst kinds of evil imaginable, Dean feels completely useless in that hallway. There is a monster here that he can’t fight. And it’s a monster that ticks.  
  
“Damn straight,” he finally says, “We need to turn around right now and walk away. I don’t know what the hell kinda harebrained system they’ve got going on upstairs, but somebody seriously needs their ass firing for screwing this up.”

Sam sighs, letting go of his brother’s arm. “Dean, I think you’re missing the point.”

“What point exactly? I don’t see the point in being here if that’s what you mean.”

“What if…” Sam purses his lips and drags a hand down his face, looking increasingly more tired as the day draws out, “… What if the reason we’re here is exactly what Debra was talking about?”

“Hold the phone… you _believe_ that?”

“Yeah, yeah I do actually.”

Dean shakes his head, turns irritably on his feet, “Sam - she’s _dying._ You heard her back there. She’s got a month tops, if she’s lucky.”

“And how does that make her less entitled than all the others?”

“Uh, being a heart-attack away from a casket for starters,” Dean scoffs, barely believing what his cupid manbaby brother is saying. “What difference are we making when her ticker could literally _stop_ ticking any time now?”

“Dean —”

“I’m serious, Sam.”

“So am I. Look, she may be running low on time, but that doesn’t mean she has to act like she’s already gone, Dean. What we’re doing makes all the difference.”

Dean shakes his head. He can’t do it. He can’t hand Debra a cheap imitation of hope when there is none. That would be fucking hypocritical of him if he did, after he’s sworn to himself that love - at least _that kind of love_ \- isn’t worth the climb when you’re already on a slippery decent. Debra’s no different. She said so herself - she _made her choice._ There’s nothing more they can do for her. He’s not made of fucking miracles - that’s not a Winchester trait. If anything, he’s fucking cursed.

“I just… I can’t,” Dean says in a broken voice, “You say this counts as saving people, Sam… but honestly? I can’t see it. I can’t…” And for the second time today, Dean zaps his ass as far from his troubles as he can, wishing that they would stop following him wherever he goes.  
  


* * *

Watching the sun set on Pensacola beach reminds Dean of one of those old oil paintings of seascapes he keeps seeing in motel picture frames. It’s iridescent; like stepping into a dream where the laws of reality no longer apply and you can simply reach out and touch the horizon with your fingers, smear the paint into new shades of blue and gold, and create your own. It’s an illusion of life - an ideal. And it’s unreachable.

Dean sits on a bench by the beach and watches the many carefree people going about their leisurely activities, blissfully unaware of how unstable their world really is right now. There is a newly-wed couple embracing by the tide as someone takes their picture. And in the distance Dean can hear the sounds of children at play, their sandcastles like a far-off cityscape in the earth. Life goes on here, on this beach. The world just keeps on turning.

So why can’t Dean turn with it?

He can’t help but think that where he is now is as good as it’s ever going to get for him and Castiel, treading the border line between what they have and something more. Like that beach - somewhere between the shore and the ocean, where building anything becomes tricky, and you run the risk of being swept out to sea. If this _is_ as good as it’s ever going to get, then it’s only because he refuses to step foot on that sand.

“Quite the view…” a voice utters by his side. Dean practically jumps out of his skin before he notices that greaser-Legolas is sat next to him, admiring the scenery with a very Castiel-like-squint.

Dean huffs before slouching back against the bench. “It _was._ ”

“I have always liked the coast,” Eros adds with a stoic look on his face, “It holds a sense of liberty and boundlessness to it, don’t you think?”

Dean doesn’t grace that question with an answer and simply keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon as Eros continues.

“I understand that you and your brother have had the misfortune of being assigned as my substitutes.”

Dean snorts. “I’d say misfortune’s the right word there, yeah.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure. Whatever… It’s not like I had much of a choice or anything…”

Dean can feel Eros’ gaze burning a hole in the side of his head, and it’s intimidating. “I apologise,” Eros says after a moment’s pause, “I’m afraid the parchment was a necessary precaution, though I trust it has served you both well?”

“Yeah about that,” Dean turns to look at him, putting on his best _I’m fucking serious_ face as he says, “You wanna clue me in as to why you got a terminal patient on your list? That supposed to be some kind of sick joke?”

Eros squints. “I do not understand your concern.”

“Are you serious? Do you need that writing in Greek?”

“If you are referring to the health of the mark, then it is purely incidental and not within my power to intervene.”

Dean shakes his head and all but laughs sardonically as he turns to watch the beach again. “Spoken like a true dick.”

“This troubles you?”

“Your whole system troubles me.”

“Why are you so opposed to what I do, Dean?”

“You want me to write you a list? Okay…” Dean takes a deep breath and fixes Eros with a fierce look. “How’s about I start with Debra Reyes, huh? The _‘purely incidental’_ patient? How you and your diaper-wearing pencil-pushers screwed up and now you think it’s somehow _okay_ to just push her onto some conveyer belt system you got going and it’ll be fine. Do you assholes work on commission or something? ‘Cause I mean, a crossroads demon’s got more integrity.”

Eros looks like he is processing Dean’s words, trying to translate it into binary or something. “And this is because the individual of whom you speak is unwell?”

Dean’s glare intensifies. “Try _dying._ Yeah, that’s _exactly why._ Not that I’d expect you to understand or anything. It’s not in your programming. Wouldn’t want you short-circuiting again.”

“And this mark… Her illness somehow impedes her ability to love?”

Dean blinks. “Well, no…”

“Then I do not see the problem in the matter.”

“No…” Dean scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels the beginnings of a head ache thrumming behind his eyeballs, “… ’Course you don’t. That’d require a sense of mortality and a goddamn _soul_.”

“Ah, I see…” Eros says, smiling to himself like he’s just uncovered something he should have noticed earlier. “You think it futile, that this human should find love so close to the end of their natural life. I assure you, it is not.”

“Gonna have to disagree with you there, toga.”

“Then what of the spring flowers? Would you deny them their chance to bloom simply because they will only wither come autumn? Is that beauty not worth beholding no matter how fleeting?”

“Look,” Dean says, raising a hand and pointing a finger for emphasis like a patronising teacher scorning a pupil, “I don’t know how it is in Cherub City, but down here the flowers _don’t feel_.”

“But they are still a part of life. A life that they embrace while you, it seems, do not.”

“I’d be embracing it right now if I wasn’t _here_ , y’know? Doing _your_ _job_.”

Eros hesitates. “You are angry.”

“Y’think? I’ve been angry since you crash landed on my freaking car,” Dean grumbles with an eye roll, “This screw up just cranked it up a notch.”

“No… no. That is not the reason…” Eros surmises as he studies Dean thoroughly. If Dean didn’t know any better he’d think the guy was checking him out.

 “This is not about the mark. It is personal,” the god eventually says, further narrowing his eyes. And Dean remembers that this is the freaking _God of Love_ he’s dealing with here and those empathic perception powers he has right now aren’t exactly exclusive. Eros can sense _everything_. So, naturally, Dean attempts to raise the defensive shields in some form or another.

“Okay genius…” he taunts through a nervous smile, “How’s about instead of perching on my shoulder you fly on back to that adjustment bureau of yours and hand out a few pink slips?”

Eros sighs. “I know that you do not agree with our methods or believe that we serve a purpose. But what we do _is_ important, Dean. A stranger’s handshake, a message on the wind, that gentle push where courage is lacking — every sign you humans have linked to fate. They are all gestures that _aid_ in the union of souls. Souls that are and always shall be drawn to one another, not by chance but by _choice_. We do not choose for them. They choose for themselves.”

Dean shakes his head. “Not what I was told when it came to my parents.”

“That was not our doing,” Eros insists.

“Not your area, huh? Okay…” Dean pushes himself up from the bench and cards a hand through his hair before throwing his hands up in defeat. “Y’know what? I don’t care. I’m done with _this. S_ o you can take your cupid’s bow and you can shove it up your ass. This ain’t my area either.”

 “Love is not reserved for the privileged few, Dean, despite what you may think,” Eros says soberly, “It is not handed out in spades or in scraps. Love is _made_. It is custom built between two souls, one of a kind, like those sandcastles on the beach. How that love fares depends on the makers. Some withstand the tide while others do not.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose again because that headache is pretty much in full swing now. “Well, you find one that survives a tsunami, you let me know.”

“That is not my point. You see, the thing about a sandcastle is that you can always rebuild it. The materials do not change. Sand is still sand, no matter what the tide may bring or what storms may pass. It simply takes ambition, willing hands, and a little patience.”

Eros stands, straightening out his leather jacket and adjusting the collar so that it covers the back of his neck, pushing the blonde tufts at the back up. “I must take my leave, but you are both relieved of your duties. You have my gratitude, again.”

“Sure,” Dean says with a patronising smile, “I’d say it’s been fun, but then I’ve sworn off bullshit, so… adios.”

Eros takes a step forward but then pauses, as if he is deciding something. The look he gives Dean reminds him so much of Castiel way back when he was still one of Heaven’s obedient servants - sort of cold and calculating, and downright abstruse.

“If I am to leave you with any enlightening words or advice, I should like to say this…” Eros says, turning his attentions to the horizon, his squinty eyes reflective as they watch the tide claw its way towards the sandcastles on the beach.

“I once knew a man who spent a lifetime by the shores of Cornwall. Each day he would walk for miles along the beach to dig through the sand in search of precious metals - trinkets and other such things lost or discarded at sea. Most of the time he returned empty handed, but he would wake the following day and dig all the same. He would dig for so long he often forgot what it was he was searching _for_ ; if he was really searching for anything at all. And it occurred to him that at some point the act of digging had become a way of life. It was all he knew _._ So when he became too old to dig anymore he would sit on his porch everyday to watch the sun set on the coast, alone.

“I came to him the day before his passing and he told me something I will never forget. He told me that he left a legacy of holes on that beach, but that none of them were as deep as the one he had left within himself. He became a man surrounded by sand who chose to dig but never build. That was all he had to say about his life in the end.” Eros pauses before returning his gaze to the wistful Winchester in front of him.

“Every castle is worth building, Dean.”

And then he vanishes, and Dean looks out towards the deserted beach, the ocean’s waves a dull ache in his head and chest as the tide slowly lays waste to the sandcastles on the shore.  
  


* * *

Sam is stood outside of the hospital, an impossible contradiction of worry and relief on his face when Dean returns. Dean doesn’t bother filling him in on all the touchy-feely details of his conversation with Eros, not if he can help it.

“So, that’s it then?” Sam says, sounding a little disappointed. “We’re fired?”

“Thank God,” Dean groans with an eye roll, “I just wish my fist had met that marble chiselled bone-structure couple times first.” He rubs his eyes before he adds, “So… what did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Sam says quietly, his hazel eyes sad and downcast, “I didn’t… I left it.”

Dean clears his throat and nods, “Oh…Good. I mean, it’s out of our hands now anyway, right? So I guess there’s no need to stick around any longer than we have to.” He pats Sam on the arm to try and lift his spirits.

“C’mon, Sammy. Let’s go home,” he says as he heads towards the curb out of habit, only to remember that they didn’t drive here…

 

And they can no longer fly.

 

“Crap.”

 

* * *

The first shot lands somewhere just to the right of the target’s shoulder, burying itself into the bullet trap behind. The second and third hit, but they’re not fatal. The fourth is better, possibly a couple of inches too high for the heart, but Castiel can’t really tell from this distance.

His eyesight isn’t what it used to be after all.

He lowers the gun and reloads, unaware of Dean stood in the doorway behind him, arms folded and quietly observing him practicing in the firing range. At least that’s what Dean thinks anyway.

“I suppose you’re here to tell me I should be resting the foot again,” Castiel drawls without turning, cocking the gun and aiming it at the target once more before firing a further  five rounds that hit in the same area or miss entirely.

“You’re half right,” Dean says as he unfolds his arms and approaches, “You _should_ be resting if you plan on getting well enough to use that thing on a moving target that’s _not_ attached to a wire.” He stops beside Castiel and evaluates the damage, and Castiel chances a sideways glance. Dean’s wearing his grey Henley today which is nice. Castiel has always liked that one.

“You’re not pulling the trigger gently enough,” Dean says, folding his arms across his chest again which causes his shirt to skew at the neckline in all the right places as he continues to direct his attention down the firing lane. “It throws off your aim if you just jerk it. And the reason you’re hitting too high is ‘cause you’re standing like a Police Academy freshman with a bazooka for their first gun.”

“I know how to hold a firearm, Dean. This isn’t my first time,” Castiel says nonchalantly as he raises the gun again and fires once. It barely clips the target’s shoulder.

“Right. ‘Course you do,” Dean says with a snort, “ _You’re_ the expert here who knows all there is to know about guns and how to use ‘em to give the target a bullet massage.”

Castiel hates using a gun. He hates its limited function and how inelegant it is compared to a blade, and he’d sooner use those words as an excuse for his sloppiness than admit that the weapon has defeated him already. He lowers the gun and cants his head at Dean.

“If you are here to mock my efforts then I will simply retire for the day. That _is_ what you want anyway, isn’t it?” It’s what Castiel wants if he’s being perfectly honest with himself right now.

Dean licks his lips subtly as he stares back at Castiel, neither one of them speaking a word for a time until Dean finally says, “Point the gun again but don’t pull the trigger.”

Castiel doesn’t want to but he complies anyway, aiming the gun at the heart of the paper target with both hands and squinting as he tries in vain to see with his old eagle-eye precision sight that no longer exists. It’s then that he feels a wall of warmth against his back that makes him flinch with surprise as one hand grips his right shoulder while the other comes to rest over his hand at the base of the handle. Dean raises the gun in Castiel’s hands ever so slightly and pulls his arms out straighter, then uses a foot to spread his legs out a fraction, pulling the right one back so Castiel is almost mimicking a fighting stance. The arm on Castiel’s right shoulder ghosts down his side before resting on his hip, pulling him around so he’s at about a 45-degree angle to the firing lane.

“Now… aim with your best eye,” Dean says in a low whisper, and Castiel can feel his lips by the shell of his ear. “Back straight, shoulders forward — nose before toes, okay? And remember to _squeeze gently_.”

Castiel inhales deeply through his nose, controlling his breathing to keep his aim steady before squeezing the trigger. The shot hits just off centre.

“Not bad, _Dirty Harry,_ ” Dean says through a quirk of his lips. He smells good, like pines on a warm summer evening. It’s a soothing smell, a thing Castiel imagines could be tangible if he were able to see it with his grace, something he could reach out and bottle up. And it suddenly occurs to him that after all the times he’s violated Dean’s circle of personal space he never knew this one simple thing. This simple, naked truth that has literally been right under his nose the whole time.

He closes his eyes, leans back against the warmth of Dean’s chest as he breathes in his scent, hears the slight hitch in Dean’s breath and feels the rising pulse from Dean’s fingers in the barely-there-squeeze on his hip. Castiel doesn’t have to imagine the sunrise, because he can feel it right here in Dean’s arms.

“You’re not useless, Cas,” Dean says, voice gruff and barely above a whisper in his ear. The intensity lacing those words punctures Castiel far deeper than any bullet ever could.

And then he feels it.

It starts as a tiny light in his chest beating like the wings of a humming bird, growing and growing until he can feel its radiance at his finger tips. It’s strangely familiar and yet enormously foreign to him, this soothing hum and warmth that swells inside his being, a comforting embrace enhancing every emotion and strengthening every sensation as it transforms black and white into glorious Technicolor for the first time. The feeling is so overwhelming, Castiel doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He whimpers through the sudden lump in his throat as the hand on his hip smoothes upwards, his tee snagging between Dean’s fingers, hot breath still a constant at his ear, the raw power of human life cradling him through a soft Henley shirt. But then that pillar of warmth pulls away, and the hum in his chest falters. When he opens his eyes and turns Dean is already through the door and down the hall, but Castiel doesn’t call after him. He doesn’t make a sound. He simply stands by the firing lane, legs rooted to the ground like two numb tree trunks, listening as the sound of Dean’s footsteps fade until only the lonely thrum of his own heart remains.  
  


* * *

_‘Sam…’_

It’s the same nightmare again.

Sam can see three woman - their faces too blurry to discern anything useful - towering above him, long fingers with nails like jagged teeth reaching out, prying at his arms in search of something. He forces them back, turns on his heel and runs through darkness, feeling the brush of leaves on his cheeks as a stray branch nicks his skin, slicing a fresh line of blood that he can smell.

_‘Sam…’_

The voice grows louder, still a whisper in his ear and yet everywhere as if the trees themselves are calling him, beckoning him deeper into the darkness. His foot snags a protruding tree trunk, and then he’s falling, rolling down a steep slope; leaves, twigs and rocks scratching at exposed skin like the ground itself is a carpet of barbed wire. The blackness is absolute, but he can feel himself spinning through it, falling for what feels like forever until he finally comes to a stop.

 

Then the horror show returns like a high-speed rerun of those visions the cursed mirror had burdened him with weeks before, and the last thing he sees is Lucifer wearing his smile.

Sam wakes with a gasp, springing out of his chair in the bunker’s library and stumbling over his own feet before he manages to steady himself on the edge of the desk, completely disorientated. It’s the fifth consecutive night now that he has had the same nightmare, and the sleep deprivation is beginning to affect him. He doesn’t even remember dosing off.

_‘Sam…’_

He shakes his head, unsure if he’s still half asleep as the strange voice continues to call his name, more distant now. Blinking tightly he looks down at the desk where open books blanket the wood finish - research, again. Sam had even begun delving into the Book of Revelations just to find something that might help explain his visions, but there is nothing. Another book - this time specialising in Greek Gods - is open on a page explaining the origins of Ananke and the Fates. The strange black book they had acquired had instantly struck a chord with Sam the moment he had laid hands on it. The gold font and weathered leather… he had _seen it before._ It had been the first of his visions, and it only made sense that the three women he keeps seeing in his dreams are the Fates themselves. Somehow this book is significant, and seeing it outside of his nightmares and freaky scrying curses is worrying.

He rubs his eyes and checks the time on his wrist watch. It’s barely past midnight, but he’s too exhausted to carry on with his research. So he decides to do some PR instead.

The storage room file cabinets open, and Sam steps into their little dungeon which has become Crowley’s permanent state of residence, apparently.

Crowley gasps theatrically from his seat. “A wild Moose appears.”

Sam ignores his taunting and approaches, slamming a hand holding a piece of paper and crayon onto the desk in front of the demon. Crowley looks at it questioningly.

“Green?” he says, eyes narrowing as they flick to meet Sam’s tired glare. “What sort of colouring club is this? Come now, Sam. How do you expect me to colour that obscenely large rainbow your brother fires from his arse whenever I mention dear old Cas?”

Sam quirks his lips. “You start writing names, and maybe I’ll throw in a shade of blue.”

Crowley sighs, throwing his hands up in a gimmick so that the chains rattle as he rolls his eyes.“Still with the _names?_ Come _on._ Do you two even talk? I’m beginning to sense a breakdown in communication here. I already told Squirrel that the names won’t matter unless you know _how_ to kill the harlot. And believe me… I’d be more than happy to help.”

Sam huffs, turning to leave Crowley alone with the stationary and his own sarcasm when the demon speaks again.

“ _If_ I write something,” Crowley begins, pausing for added drama, “Will you indulge me on a… personal matter?”

Sam looks puzzled, but interested enough to turn and walk a couple of paces back towards the devil’s trap. “And what would that be?”

“Just something that I feel may concern you and your… _miraculous recovery_.”

Sam’s shoulders tense up and he visibly straightens his posture, the blood thrumming in his ears and behind his eyes as he balls his hands into fists. “What?”

Crowley sneers as he writes a name onto the paper, sliding it to Sam’s end of the desk with his fingers when he’s finished. “That’s just an employee who was up for review anyway.”

Sam takes the paper, not bothering to look at it as he stuffs it into his jeans pocket.

“It does seem _awful strange_ though, doesn’t it?” Crowley continues, the smile ever present on his face, “You. Suddenly back to full health after all the damage the trials had done. Dean acting all dark and mysterious, not in the least bit curious as to why that is? And you’re… _okay_ with that?”

Sam swallows thickly.

“What if I was to say… that action hero brother of yours made a wish, and someone delivered?” Crowley adds, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers.

“Dean… Dean wouldn’t deal.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley says with raised eyebrows, “After _his_ track record?”

Sam shifts his feet, his brows creasing at the thought of Dean making a deal again. Of Dean _going to Hell again._ “Why are you telling me this?”

Crowley chuckles lightly, “You and me, Moose. We had a connection back in that church. Made me see the light or however the phrase goes. I’m making an effort to patch up our relationship, and I thought that, _maybe_ , if I help you find some answers to that miracle cure then it would count as a redeeming act.” He raises his hands and shrugs as he leans back in his chair, “Of course, I _could_ be wrong…”

Sam gums his lower lip pensively. “You can… do that?”

“I should bloody well think so,” Crowley says sardonically, “Dirt is one of my specialities. It is, after all, the most valuable currency in business.”

“So what’s in it for you?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Hell’s bells. Have you lost your ears behind that mane of yours? I’m doing this as a personal favour for you. Wouldn’t be much of a redeeming act if I was expecting a trade.”

Sam huffs. “You’re in sales. There’s no cure for that.”

“Ouch,” Crowley drolls, “You hurt my feelings. But seriously, Moose… I _will_ need you to do one tiny thing for me.”

Sam squints. “Like what?”

“Cut me out of these chains, of course,” Crowley says as if it’s the most obvious request. “I _do_ need to travel for the information you want.”

Sam snorts as he turns on his heel. “Not going to happen.”

“Then let me put it this way —” Crowley deadpans, “You don’t cut these chains, you don’t get the dirt on Dean. And he could be in some serious guano right now. How does that sound?”

The King of Hell’s words are deeply unsettling, but Sam doesn’t bite. He knows Crowley is nothing but trouble, and his words are often laced with poison. But the temptation is there. Sam still hasn’t let his sudden recovery slide in the back of his mind, and Dean has been particularly evasive of anything to do with The Book of Fate.

He admits that he’s tempted. But there’s no way in hell that he’ll ever deal with Crowley.

“Take some time to think it over,” Crowley says as Sam closes the doors behind him.

And he will think about it - far more than he would care to admit.


End file.
